


The Swing Set

by Cloverbomb (orphan_account)



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Character Development, College, F/F, Flashbacks, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Memories, Summer, bechloe - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-04-17 03:26:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4650489
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Cloverbomb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is Chloe Beale really that childish?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fudge

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Fact: I thought of this while actually on a swing.

She was at it again. It was baffling. This was the fifth night in a row the redhead had ventured down Beca’s street and plunked down onto a swinging green seat with the vigor and excitement only a child hyped up on too many cookies could encompass. And it really wasn't that Beca was necessarily keeping an eye out for her every night, she had just...noticed.

 

Beca tried to understand, she really did, but she just could not wrap her mind around it for the life of her favorite headphones. How could an eighteen year old female, who’d just graduated number six from her high school and earned a full Choral scholarship to Barden University, be so embarrassingly _childish_?

 

It’s quite unfair, the versatility that is Chloe Beale. At any given moment, Chloe could pass as a teen idol, strutting down the street on an evening walk with her shimmery red hair looking as though it had been styled by a professional (really though, was she hiding a beautician in her bathroom cupboards?) and a rosy hue about her cheeks due to the incessant humidity - which in fact raised more questions about her hair, because _no one’s_ hair was supposed to look good in 85% humidity. She often wore shorts that were maybe a little too short, with frays at the hem and tears at the pockets, and colorful flowing shirts that occasionally clung to her stomach.

 

Beca always thought she looked ready to jump onto the recording set of some cliché techno summer single music video, where she’d be running down a beach singing with low thumps of bass and high synth beats, all leading her to some shirtless boy coming out of the surf with a dramatic hair flip. _Ugh_. The only way Beca would be okay with that would be if _she_ were the one who produced said cliché techno summer single and was making tons of money from it - because let’s be honest, most of Beca’s mixes were better than the stuff littering the radio right now.

 

Despite Chloe’s glittering exterior and often alluring first impressions, most of her glamour and magic is stripped away the moment her inner six year old breaks free from somewhere deep within her. She’d go from taking confident, calculated steps to swinging her head back and forth with her fists pumping in the air, cherry lips screaming out the lyrics to the newest Tove Lo radio single. All of her energy exploded from every inch of her body as she would dance her way, like there was no one else in the world to see her, to the rusty swing set in the poor excuse for a park that took residence across the street from Beca’s house.

 

“You should go say hi. You two used to be such good friends.”

 

Beca, cringing vigorously, swings her arms up in an ineffective execution of self-defense. “Geez! Dad, Jesus Christ, can you _not_ do that?! Please?” Her shoulders roll backwards, attempting to forget the show she just put on and ignore her father's snickering. She was tiny, but she had no doubt she could pack a punch - it would be a considerably awkward punch, but it would _still_ hurt!

 

Mr. Mitchell stuffs his hands into the pockets of his khaki slacks nonchalantly, looking at her incredulously. “Bec, I don’t know what the norm is for you kids these days, but I’m pretty positive it doesn’t involve watching others play in the park from afar every night.”

 

 _O_ kay, that was a low blow - Beca had only been watching her for like, two minutes, _maybe_. Again, it wasn’t like she was _trying_ to be creepy or anything, she had just drifted off to la-la-land...while she silently judged Queen Chloe from her living room window. Yeah. Not creepy.

 

Beca’s eyes roll to the moon and back. “Okay, one: since when have I ever cared what the norm was? And two: I was just thinking about how immature she is.” Her pointer and middle finger jut out respectively as she speaks, and she makes sure to fully pronounce every syllable in ‘immature’ almost as a way to showcase her own maturity. “It's sad, actually. She should really develop some adult hobbies.”

 

He sighs and shoot his daughter his best ‘I’m Your Father, Listen to Me’ look with a drop of his shoulders, "You never have cared about fitting in, I guess. But,” his head dips and his eyebrows raise condescendingly, which does nothing but make Beca feel like she is a twelve year old being chastised for throwing erasers at a school mate, “Sometimes reconnecting to your childhood can be good for you. You grew up too fast, Bec, and it wouldn’t hurt for you to get out and have some _innocent_ fun one of these days. You could learn a little something from Miss Beale.”

 

Choking back her pride and an unnecessary comment that would likely lead her father to smashing her laptop into pieces on the driveway, she diverts to chewing on the inside of her cheek and crosses her arms. She despised it when her father tried to teach her some life lesson within the span of two quick sentences, which somehow always held little connotations that Beca no longer had the energy to evaluate.

 

“Yeah. Well I’m eighteen, fully grown up and with no desire of having this ‘innocent fun’ you speak of.” Which was only partially false; Beca _was indeed_ considered a grown adult in the eyes of the state. But suddenly, she is also absolutely sure she could swing _at least_ a foot higher than Chloe, height and body mass concentration and all. _At least_

 

Right now, however, she just knows she’d much rather be thinking about how ridiculous Chloe acts when she’s by herself than be talking to her father about things she should be changing about herself.

 

Before gnawing a hole through her cheek, Beca shrugs off her father’s attempt at a comforting shoulder pat with a huff and shuffles to her room, where she plugs her headphones into her laptop and works to find the perfect beat to match her newest mix.

 

Three days later, when Beca’s jeep pulls into the driveway around seven in the evening, Beca being a tightly wound ball of anger, sleepiness, and lack of patience, she was exposed to a separate cluster of emotions upon seeing that Chloe was once again channeling her active six year old self across the street.

 

The night before, Beca’s dad had informed her that she _would_ be attending Barden University - no questions asked - to earn a degree before “running away and destroying her life” in L.A. Since then, she’d faced a steady flow of rude and crotchety customers during her shift at the local record store, asking idiotic questions such as why they didn’t sell movies and where they could find the 1989 vinyl - Beca would never admit that she adored Taylor Swift, but still, _why_ was that _all_ anyone _wanted_?

 

All that aside, it was impossible to tell if Chloe’s antics were adding to her frustration or lifting a weight off of her shoulders. Chloe’s feet, clad in black Converse - the ones Beca remembered having bought for her _years_ ago when she thought Chloe needed less color in her wardrobe - were digging into the ground and pushing her in a circle as she twisted the chains of the seat like a licorice rope. The chains tightened and Chloe could no longer rotate herself, so she stuck her feet out and let the potential energy that had built up release, slowly accelerating her in a circle until she was spinning rapidly.

 

 It was a blur of fiery hair and silver chain links and white flashes of an open smile, and Beca knew if she were a little closer she could probably hear Chloe laughing over the squeak of the nuts and bolts barely holding the set together.

 

Some part of Beca wanted to run over and plop down on the seat next to the redhead and ask her how she was and tell her how sorry she was for leaving her and how much she wanted her back in her life. But doing so would erase the harsh reputation Beca had constructed - which was not acceptable.

 

She needed that reputation. Or rather, the idea of it, considering she had already graduated and high school politics were no longer an issue that Beca had to avoid like the plague through fierce death glares and disregard of everyone except her only friend Amy (who she was really only friends with because of her sense of humor).

 

And maybe sometimes she did take an earbud out to listen to Chloe talk in Advanced Government and Economics, but _so_ what. Chloe’s voice is calming, akin to slipping into a warm bath after a long day, or reading by a fire during a snowstorm.

 

Beca needed to be mentally and emotionally able to move on, away from her hometown, and venture on to somewhere better with a devil-may-care attitude, forgetting everything that had ever held her back. Most of all, she needed to be able to escape without being panged by guilt for the rest of her life _for_ leaving everything behind - she already had enough guilt built up in her system due to one especially reckless abandonment on her part. But other than that little detail, so far she was good. She felt confident and mostly careless, and a swing set was not going to ruin all of that - she hoped.

 

So instead of running over to join play time with Chloe, she slammed her car door shut and dialed Amy, knowing she would have something ridiculously dangerous and/or stupid for them to do, and after the past few days, Beca would be up for anything that required zero thinking and tons of laughter. Screw innocent fun.

 

…

 

It was one-thirty in the morning. Literally, one-fucking-thirty, pitch black on the outskirts of the yellow light illuminating from the street poles - basically prime time for creepers and breeding ground for bad intentions - and Crazy Chloe was _still_ on those damned swings. Beca - bless her soul - had no idea what Amy had given her, but her mind would not stay still, let alone stay on one track - had been standing on her driveway squinting and mushing her lips together nervously for what felt like a lifetime (but was probably only thirty seconds) contemplating going over to tell Chloe just how insane she was.

 

It seemed like a fantastic idea in her boggled head, but her legs didn’t want to budge. Almost like her brain was trying to save her from some galactic embarrassment to be had from speaking to Chloe Beale whilst under some influence.

 

But...she just _really_ wanted to talk to her, and Beca never _was_ good with impulse control.

 

“Hey!” Beca shouts at an odd and harsh whispery tone. “Heeey!” She repeats, drawing out the vowel until Chloe looks up at her from her lap, the swing barely rocking.

 

Upon seeing that Chloe has acknowledged her, Beca raises her right hand up high and flails it about in an exaggerated motion that really shouldn’t even be considered a wave. Chloe hesitantly waves, her fingers splayed open. It was obvious that she was baffled, especially since Beca hadn’t spoken a word to her in a year and a half. Beca was too busy rattling her hand off of her wrist to pay mind to Chloe’s stiff demeanor.

 

“Beca?” She says, just loud enough for the brunette to hear, but courteous of the sleeping neighbors surrounding them. That was Chloe for you: always finding a way to please everyone.

 

Beca feels a stupid grin crack open on her face, feeling like she’s just met a celebrity - which is weird, because it’s _just_ Chloe. She’s spoken to Chloe before. She’s had Chloe for class, known her for years.

 

But then again...it’s just _Chloe_. Chloe had been there with a tray of double fudge brownies when Beca turned sixteen. Chloe had cradled her head in her lap when her dad asked for the step-monster’s hand in marriage. And _Beca_ had been there for _Chloe_ , on that damned swing set, kneeling in front of the redhead, letting her pull petals from daisies every time her ex-boyfriends had been pretentious assholes. Let her spill her worries when her brother had joined the Marines and been deployed to Afghanistan. Let her cry her eyes out when a letter came back in his stead.

 

_“Shh, I’m right here Chlo.” Beca gazed up at Chloe from her position in front of the redhead and nearly burst into tears herself. Seeing Chloe cry was easily Beca’s least favorite thing in the world. She was willing to dye her hair magenta, watch Sixteen Candles every day for the rest of her life and go tone deaf if it meant never seeing Chloe cry again._

 

_Reaching up, Beca lightly brushes some auburn strands from Chloe’s face. She was wracked with sobs and had not been able to form a proper sentence since she’d called Beca to meet her here - and even then Beca had trouble piecing together the story. Apparently, Chloe had woken up that morning to see her father sitting alone in the kitchen with a letter in his hand. Her mother had stayed in bed all day, and for days after that. Chloe had turned to Beca._

 

 _“I just…why? Why does this-” Chloe hiccuped and Beca shushed her again, grabbing her wrists and pulling her gently onto the ground with her and letting the redhead clutch onto her; Chloe tugged tighter on Beca’s charcoal Panic! At The Disco shirt to pull herself closer, her leaky eyes soaking Beca’s shoulder and neck. Beca didn’t know what to say - what were you_ supposed _to say during an event such as this? How could anyone fill such a hole?_

 

_Beca hummed Chloe’s favorite songs and stroked her hair, feeling completely useless. Chloe finally gave in to the tear induced exhaustion and let her body slump to the grass, resting her head in Beca’s lap and holding onto her thighs for dear life. Chloe hadn’t vocally asked her to stay, hadn’t put that pressure on her, but fingers digging into Beca’s thighs were enough to convey all that and more._

 

But Beca didn’t listen. She stopped speaking to her. Stopped answering her texts, stopped meeting her at the swing set. It hurt too much, being close to Chloe Beale, for a number of reasons. One being she was barely holding herself together - she knew one day it would all come tumbling down, and she didn’t want to take the rest of Chloe out when it happened. She saw how Chloe had hurt - and saw how she had endured - and for some reason that she would never comprehend, thought that Chloe would be better off without her mood swings and her indecision over everything under the sun. She refused to acknowledge that she was Chloe’s anchor, and that she was hers.

 

The second being the way her heart swelled when Chloe would playfully bump her shoulder, and how her smile was more contagious than mono. Not that Beca would really mind if Chloe were the one to give her mono. However, she was Chloe Beale, and she dated quarterbacks and foreign exchange students with exotic accents. Not her moody best friend who held dreams bigger than she could truly idealize within her tiny body.

 

But dammit, Beca had made the decision to distance herself, and did so immediately. And it wasn’t like she could run back to Chloe after dissing her so many times, like “Hey, sorry for leaving when you needed me the most, buuut I’m here now! Buds? Buds.”

 

To shelter herself from the nagging self-loathing and her cravings to be near Chloe and all of her wonder, she had convinced herself that setting Chloe free to drift away was the smart thing to do when she decided she wanted to leave to L.A. She’d rather Chloe get over the absence of her sooner than later - and she would rather do the same, although her decision had come to bite her in the ass every time she saw Chloe push herself to and fro on the plastic seat.

 

“Hi,” Beca shout-whispers, standing straight as a plank. “What are you doing?” She can hear the giddiness in her voice, but doesn’t really recognize the way it makes her sound exactly like what she’s been making fun of Chloe for being: a child.

 

“Beca?” Chloe voice is dripping with concern, but it’s not enough to dampen Beca’s excitement upon hearing Chloe speak her name. “Are you...are you okay?”

 

Beca feels her head bob violently, jarring her mind for a second. She feels great, until: “Are you drunk or something?” And suddenly she feels more sober than she ever has in her life, because she’s making an absolute fool of herself in front of Chloe Beale. Queen Chloe. Crazy Chloe. Whatever.

 

Forgetting all the things Beca might have told herself before in order to forget the ginger, in that moment she was only certain of one thing in the entire universe: Chloe Beale was perfection. Supreme perfection bottled up into one petite, redheaded, angel-voiced human being. Maybe this wasn’t the first time Beca had realized it, but it was definitely the first time it had fallen on her conscious so heavily, the first time is actually held footing in the forefront of her thoughts.

 

The air around Beca felt fresh and warm, and her vision was no longer shuttering and shrouded. A displaced chill racked up her spine and she could feel a fire burning on her cheeks and neck. As much as she wanted to run up and grab Chloe’s face and tell her about how fucking flawless she was and how she deserved the universe and how Beca desperately wanted to be the one to give it to her one star at a time…she knew it would be the worst thing she could do at this point.

 

“Beca, wait there. I’m coming, okay? Just stay there.” Chloe spoke like she was instructing a kindergartener and was shifting off the swing to make her way towards Beca. In that moment, Beca’s feet could finally be pried from the cement and her flight instincts were screaming at her to bail and hide under her midnight purple bed sheets.

 

She actually does turned to run, but not even two steps in, her foot collides with an uneven sidewalk slab and she flies outward, her arms stretching to desperately break her fall.

 

And they do, somewhat. Oh so painfully.

 

“Beca! Oh my - are you okay?” Within two seconds, Chloe’s rapid footsteps approach Beca and she is kneeling down to help the clumsy brunette. Her hand rests gingerly on Beca’s back before Beca heaves herself over onto her side, leading Chloe’s hand to rest along the dip above her hips.

 

And Beca really just needs her to remove her hand, because the weight of it is overpowering the ache in her knees and she kind of needs to know what hurts in order to give Chloe an answer.

 

“Oh my God, do I need to call an ambulance? Or get a first-aid kit? Are you bleeding?”

 

Beca hears the urgency in Chloe’s voice and if she wasn’t dying from humiliation, she would probably be laughing, because it’s not like she had been struck by a car, or stabbed by a madman. She simply tripped; but Chloe enjoyed over dramatizing everything. She claimed it made life more exciting, like a novel or a movie.

 

_“Beca,” Chloe whispers from her swing one foot away, kicking her feet forwards and backwards, “do you ever feel like your life is like a book?”_

 

_Beca, whose face was slack with content just seconds ago, raises one eyebrow and scrunches her nose. “No, Chlo. I never feel like my life is like a book. I’m not sure I even know what you mean by that.”_

 

_An adorable snort followed by a giggle spills from the redhead, and if Beca didn’t know better, she would guess the girl felt silly at saying such a thing...but Beca did know better. She knew Chloe had a mental ten page essay in her head with quotes and in-text citations about how life could be like a work of literature._

_“You know, like those indie novels. The ones where there’s a main character, typically with a depressing backstory, who decides they’re done following the rules and being chained down. So, they pack a bag with not enough clothes and too many keepsakes, and then they set off hitchhiking down their small town’s only highway, and face all these obstacles, then in the end they find somewhere they feel at home and can finally find peace with themselves.”_

_Once she’s done, she expectantly gazes over to Beca, who’s spent the entire time listening while staring at her shoes with her lips parted._

 

_“Moment like these,” Chloe continues, “I feel like it’s something to be read about in a book, or seen in a movie. I get this nostalgic feeling when we do this, like I miss it even though it’s still happening. I never want it to end.” After a long, contemplative moment, Chloe adds softly, “I think you would be an interesting main character.”_

 

 _And as flattering as that might sound, Beca, being incapable of having a serious conversation 90% of the time, gapes at Chloe. “Whoa Beale, my upbringing was not_ that _depressing. Just because I was forced to attend ballet against my will until I was eight and had a questionable fashion sense until I met you does_ not _mean it was depressing.”_

 

_Chloe swings over to nudge Beca’s knee with her calf, “I’m serious! I’m not saying all of that applies to you, I’m just saying that between the two of us, you would definitely write a better story. That’s all.” She ends her sentence with a cheeky smile._

 

_Beca thinks that if she were to write a story, Chloe would most definitely be the main character._

 

“No, no, and no,” Beca groans in response, sounding pained, “I’m fine. I kind of landed on my boobs, but I’ll live.” She finally rolls comfortably onto her back, which makes her body ache slightly less, but now Chloe’s hand is on her stomach. Beca’s abdominals tense at the empty sensation it leaves when it slips off to hover over Chloe’s mouth as she tries to cover up her quiet laughter.

 

“Stop. Please. Please stop,” Beca mutters pathetically with a pouty bottom lip. Her forearm shifts up to cover her eyes dramatically. “God, I cannot believe all this just happened. Can we like, just forget about this? Please?” She peeks one eye out from under her arm to see what Chloe is doing, and is baffled to see Chloe wearing a sad yet amused smile, her eyes watching Beca carefully. “And I feel very tiny and weak right now in light of what just occurred, so I would appreciate if you would stop looking at me like I’m some wounded puppy.”

 

“Oh, Beca,” Chloe taunts, pressing her lips together tightly as to hold a grin back, but Beca can see the conniving glint in her wide eyes, “but you _are_ tiny.”

 

If it were anyone else, Beca would have stood up and limped away without another glance to whoever had mocked her height, and would never speak to them again...but it was Chloe. So she was alright when they both burst into laughter, Beca slightly more hesitant to do so than Chloe, and she was alright when Chloe’s head fell upon her stomach when she hunched over from laughing so hard.

 

She was alright when Chloe stood up and helped Beca maneuver to her feet. She was not all that good, though, when Chloe pulled her in for a tight embrace and murmured that she missed her into her hair. She didn’t want to say it back, didn’t want to admit it. But she does, very quietly, half of her hoping the redhead missed it.

 

She knows Chloe heard it though, when the redhead pulls her away by her waist, squeezing Beca’s sides tighter, staring at her with eyes that hold so many emotions and messages. It’s as exhilarating as it is terrifying, because the longer Beca holds her gaze, the more secrets flood into her from Chloe. Everything she’d missed out on for a year and a half, all forcing its way in and crashing down like a tidal wave. All of it just intensifies Beca’s adoration and pull to the ginger, makes her want to cradle her face and taste the peppermint gloss coating her lips.

 

Beca isn’t sure what expressions paints her face, but it must have shared something similar to Chloe’s. Something in the redhead’s jaw shifts, and blue eyes remain focused while somehow appearing glazed over. Understanding and agreement mixed with uncertainty and fear.

 

Chloe leans in tentatively, like she isn’t sure if she should do what she wants to do or not, but she is aware she has gone too far to go back now. She is committed.

 

Her lips drag from the side of Beca’s mouth up to her cheekbone and she presses a full kiss to it. Many of Beca’s senses grow to be overwhelmingly occupied; the feeling of Chloe’s mouth and hands on not enough of her body, the smell of her tropical lotion encasing them, the sound of their heartbeats, the red of her hair barely distinguishable in the dark despite being centimeters away.

 

Chloe’s fingertips trail off of Beca’s hips slowly as she pulls her face away. It takes all of Beca’s self-restraint to not pull her back into her and beg her to never stop. Her regrets of being unable to do just that make her temples throb as Chloe backs away, step by step, and waves a good-bye with a secretive, knowing half smirk, before spinning around to walk home.

 

It’s frightening, because that smile…it revealed too much. It was proof that Chloe heard Beca’s words, spoken _and_ unspoken. Proof that Chloe _knows_.

 

Beca is sure she knows when she wakes up the next morning to find a plate of double fudge brownies on her doorstep.


	2. Exercise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So much going on in those pretty little heads.

_“My mother is going to kill me.”_

_“Chloe, chill. It’s tiny, you can cover it with a watch or a scarf or something.”_

_Beca’s face contorts at her attempt to hide her laughter from the redhead next to her. Chloe was staring down at her wrist with wide, desperate eyes and a worried frown creasing her brow, like she’d just seen her great-grandmother’s ghost. (She was mumbling along with Katy Perry on the radio though, so Beca knew she couldn’t be feeling_ too _crappy._

_On Chloe’s inner wrist was a dime sized image of a ladybug, permanently inked into her porcelain skin. It was brand new, so her skin was still red and quite swollen. She had been whining the entire afternoon about ‘unforeseen consequences’ and how she would be ‘grounded for all eternity,’ and about how it felt like she had been ‘stabbed one thousand times by very angry, very tiny wasps.’ Beca assured her that would be much more painful than getting a tattoo._

_On the other hand, Beca decided it was either go big or go home, thus choosing to get an intricate design of flowers with thorny stems on her shoulder blade. It was somewhat of an impulsive decision, she could admit that. But she knew she wouldn’t regret it as long as it came out clean; luckily, the dude was basically DaVinci reincarnated. She already made an appointment to get color added to it in a few weeks._

_At 16, they technically weren’t old enough to get tattoos without parental consent, but Beca knew a guy from her Art class with an older brother who owned a tattoo and piercing shop, and was more than happy to help a few teens rebel against their parents. It was a win-win situation! In addition to the tattoo, Beca pierced her left cartilage. She would never admit it to Chloe - the poor girl was already pining Beca about how to properly care for body art - but the piercing had been burning since they left the shop. It probably hadn’t helped when Chloe pulled her in for a bear hug after they left the shop and smashed her cheek against Beca’s newly pierced ear._

_Beca turns the steering wheel, driving the car onto their street, and winces at stretch it gives her shoulder._

_It does not go unnoticed, of course. Chloe basically has a radar to detect Beca’s slightest motions and emotional shifts (not that she showed many). “Does your shoulder hurt?” Chloe asks, looking pained and pitiful enough for the both of them._

_A dark eyebrow slides up and Beca scoffs obnoxiously, “Puh-lease, Chloe. Who do you think I am?”_

_“Oh, whatever Mitchell.” Chloe wafts her hand, rebutting Beca’s cheeky attitude with an expression somewhere between irritation and mild amusement. It was enough to show her displeasure for Beca’s bravado, but they both knew she was seeing right through it, and that Beca would be hugging a pillow and pleading for painkillers in twenty minutes._

_She continues, “Is it like, your goal in life to make me feel like a huge baby?” There was still a slight tension in her jaw that made it apparent she was still in a little pain._

_Avoiding her gaze, Beca glues her stormy eyes to the road. “It is_ not _my fault that you have no pain tolerance, Beale.” She raises a palm in front of Chloe’s face, anticipating a ‘sad puppy’ stare and most definitely not wanting to fall victim to it. “And I have many goals in life, but I cannot confirm nor deny if that is one of them.”_

 _The car pulls up in front of the Mitchell residence and the engine dies down. Sometimes Beca feels like she’s spoiling Chloe’s innocent nature; dulling the light in her, ruining her good habits and morals with her own indifference and pessimistic attitude. But really, were the things they did necessarily_ bad _? Maybe getting tattoos at 16 (to piss her parents off on Beca’s part, and because Chloe thought it would be ‘totes cute’) wasn’t their smartest nor most refined moment, but it was fun and exciting, and it was a memorable moment they were able to share with one another._

_To Beca, that was worth the trouble she was undoubtedly going to get into (if her dad even noticed). Plus, it could have been way worse; at least they weren’t shop lifting, or tagging City Hall._

_Chloe leans over the middle console and pinches the sensitive backside of Beca’s arm sharply._

_“Oww!” She yelps, effectively blowing her previous air of superiority. “Dude!”_

_“It’s not my fault you have no pain tolerance, Mitchell!” The redhead teases, mocking Beca’s deeper voice with an animated tilting of her head, rocking it to and fro like a boat on choppy waters. She leans back into her seat with a fit of giggles and slaps her thigh, then swings the car door open and hops out._

_Beca rubs her arm hard, her face softening at the happy sounds coming from Chloe. “Jerk.”_

Too many brownies.

She definitely ate too many brownies.

That was really the only reason she was doing this. The only reason she dragged her sugar-stuffed self off of the couch, threw on some dusty workout clothes that she’d bought at least two years ago and never used, and broke out her Adidas. Those were used, but only for low maintenance high school outfit purposes.

The _sole_ _reason_ she is shuffling down the street at two in the afternoon, her shoes scuffing as rubber meets sweltering cement, trying her absolute best to ignore the slow, burning throb in her calves and the cramp in her neck muscles, spawning from the attempt to swing her arms naturally (which failed, because since she was _trying_ to do so, she effectively made her muscles much more tense and unnaturally positioned than they should be).

At least that’s what she told herself – it was all the brownies fault – because she definitely did _not_ plan on passing by Chloe’s house, because that would be totally weird, considering their circumstances. She originally wanted to cut off Chloe’s half of her street from her route entirely, but…things happen.

Actually, all of this is weird to Beca, because Beca _doesn’t run_ , and she _definitely_ doesn’t creep on people the way she felt like she was creeping on Chloe this exact moment. Happening by her living room window to glance out and see Chloe at the park across the street is one thing, but _actively_ searching for her? That would be _totally_ crossing the line.

…Right?

From a few houses down, she can see that Chloe is outside, settled on a porch step with a heavy looking text book opened on her lap. Knowing Chloe, she is probably prepping for the courses she’s signed up for at Barden and driving herself insane with anxiety.

At times like this, when Chloe would stress over the next important exam or choir competition, Beca used to show up unannounced to drag Chloe away from her studies, off on some adventure where they could talk about anything and everything. She couldn’t ever tell the girl she was coming, because she’d find a way to keep Beca away, whether it be with a blatant lie (that she would apologize profusely for later) or by guilt-tripping her with threats of failing a class. Not that she ever actually _would_ fail a class.

Beca could see right through her, anyway. She wouldn’t always act like it at first, but Chloe knew those little breaks were a necessity. About a twenty minutes in to their journey, Chloe would exhale much of her stress, her shoulders visibly drooping in relaxation, her tight, forced smile morphing into a softly curved one, and then a quiet, vulnerable voice would speak out to thank Beca. Of course the ginger was capable of handling a full plate, but everyone has a breaking point, and Beca had made it her responsibility to always keep her best friend well away from the edge.

Suddenly, Beca has a shimmer of what _could_ be a good idea. Something that (hopefully) wouldn’t be _too_ awkward nor unwelcomed. And _God_ , she’s already hating herself for thinking it, because it’s likely a horrible idea and she is fully aware of the detrimental effects it could have on her mental and emotional (possibly physical) health.

The redhead probably hears the dragging footsteps and labored breathing before seeing her approach – which Beca is not particularly proud of.

“Beca?” The redhead says questioningly for the second time within the past twenty-four hours.

She has to take a minute before responding, holding up a finger to ask Chloe for a moment before collapsing at her waist and resting her hands on her knees. It was worrisome that jogging less than a mile was making her wheeze so violently, but she never had been one for exerting too much energy. Why work out when she could watch season one of _Sons of Anarchy_ for the fourth time?

“I…” She breathes out. “I just…” And another wheeze. “I wanted to-“

“Okay, no.” Chloe’s sets her book down with a _thump_ and stands up. Before Beca can muster the energy to fend her off, she is being tugged by her arm and led to sit on the front steps Chloe had just been occupying. Although, ‘sit’ does not exactly describe what Beca does; she more flops onto the step awkwardly, knocking her shins on the wood, drawing a grunt from her and a quiet apology from the redhead. She tells Beca to wait, makes her nod her head in a promise to stay, and bounds into the house. She returns a minute later with a tall glass of ice water and a damp cloth.

“Here,” she hands the chilly glass over. “Drink.”

Beca doesn’t need to be told twice. She gulps it down, sending icy waves to put out the fires lingering throughout her body. She can feel Chloe’s eyes on her as she does so, examining, hypothesizing why Beca, of all people, is partaking in physical activity. A water droplet trickles down Beca’s chin as she lowers the empty glass.

“Should I be worried? Is the mafia after you? Because if so, we really should not be sitting out in the open like this.” Guesses Chloe, dripping with sarcasm and bemusement. Beca can help but feel like she was the one who taught the ginger how to be witty and sarcastic. In that moment she also can’t help but regret it, seeing as it was being directed towards her.

“I ate,” She gasps, her shoulder shifts up so she can wipe the water off her chin with the fabric of her shirt. Her focus had been zeroed in on hydration rather than oxygen, so she was still trying to catch her breath. “ _Way_ too many brownies.”

Chloe allows for a moment of heavy silence, her earlier easiness replaced with a firm, tense, and blatantly unhappy shift in attitude. “It’s two in the afternoon, Beca.”

Said girl’s deep blue eyes flick over to Chloe’s, avert to the ground, and then swing back up. “Okay.”

Chloe blinks. “It’s the middle of the day. It’s nearly one-hundred degrees outside.” Her upper body shifts forward to rest her elbows on her knees, and her head is turned to squint at Beca. Beca would have preferred she _not_ have done that, because now she has to try not to stare at the shiny red hair casting a curtain beside Chloe’s face. “Are you _trying_ to get a heat stroke?”

The brunette’s mouth opens, but she doesn’t really know what to say. Because, _duh_ , it’s a given that she was _not_ out with the intent to suffer a heat stroke. Because Chloe is looking at her with such caring eyes. But also, she had _just_ gone for a run, _why_ was she being put through the wringer?

Sure, it was pretty fucking hot outside, and sure, Beca didn’t even know the sign of a heat stroke or dehydration.

But she was fine. Totally fine.

She only began to feel less fine when she realized it was Chloe’s gaze making her feel heated, not the stuffy climate enveloping them.

“I was thinking, if I tried hard enough, I might just spontaneously combust into flames, and then I’d never have to deal with the impending doom of adulthood, such as bills, and jury duty, and…politics. Yuck.” She wrinkles her nose to emphasize her point. She also hopes it’s sufficient enough of a subject change to quell some of Chloe’s unrest.

“Beca.” The redhead sighs and sits up straight and tosses the towel she’d brought out earlier onto Beca’s thigh, then turns to pull a pencil out from the pages of her textbook. “It’s not smart. It’s dangerous.” Beca sees her lips press together, a barrier to stop more words from coming out. To stop her from scaring Beca away.

She really wishes she wouldn’t do that; wouldn’t hesitate to say what she really wants. It tugs on Beca’s few heartstrings, because she knows that all Chloe wants to do is share how worried she was when she saw Beca nearly having a heart attack on her front lawn. What bugs Beca the most is that she knows it’s _her_ fault that Chloe is uncomfortable with speaking her mind around her; a painful side effect of being abandoned and ignored by the one person you _thought_ you could tell anything to, Beca realizes.

Quietly, she busies herself wrapping her red hair around into a bun, her arms raised, and stabs the pencil through it strategically, maneuvering it so that it suspends her bun without a tie.

Desperately needing to ignore the muscles defining Chloe’s arms for the sake of her current state of mind (which had gotten dangerously close to the gutter), Beca instead studies Chloe’s expression, trying to hide her ogling through thorough wiping of her face with the damp towel.

She scans the flexing in her jaw as she moves her lips around and purses them in irritation, and notices her weary look about her eyes: the barely darker indent beneath her waterline, the drooping of her top eyelid. Is she tired? Is she _that_ upset? Is it the heat, making her feel fuzzy, the way you do when you feel a cold coming on? Sapphire eyes finally land on an indent curving deeply into the skin above an auburn eyebrow.

So much within the past few years had changed, Chloe’s exterior being no exception. Yet, Beca can’t help but notice that it’s that one scar that lingers as a humbling quality. A reminder.

_“Ow, shit, fuck, shit!”_

_That wasn’t a good sign. Chloe never swore. Chloe only used curse words when Beca was being especially stupid and/or insensitive, during terrifying shows of road rage, or when she was in pain._

_Beca minimizes the distance between them with a jog towards the redhead, who was leaning into the front of her locker and pressing a palm to her forehead. Beca’s nearly empty backpack bounced against her hip and the squeak of her scrappy Converse echoed down the hallway._

_“Chloe?” Beca was shocked to hear the caring tone of her voice, but seeing as it was brought on by Chloe, she decided to let it slide this time. Also, she was beat from being at school all day; sophomore year was a bitch so far. “What happened?” She places a light hand on the ginger’s elbow and gently pulls the palm away from the girl’s forehead. Blood flowed steadily from a small cut and was smeared on the surrounding skin. “Jesus, Chlo!” Beca hisses._

_Her hand flies back onto the wound with a wince. “I know! I was digging through my bag to look for my locker combination, because you know how I-”_

_“How you always forget the third number, I know. Then what?”_

_“Then someone pushed the back of my head and it slammed against that,” Chloe explains, pointing at a protruding nail holding a metal locker sheet in place. “And then they ran off. Fuck, Bec, it stings like a_ bitch _!”_

_“Are you_ serious _right now?” The brunette explodes, incredulous, hoping Chloe knows the outburst isn’t directed towards her, rather at whoever it was that was escaping the school after committing assault against another student. She draws in a deep, calming breath. “Okay, Chlo. Come see Doctor Beca.” She picks Chloe’s messenger bag up from the floor and begins leading her to the nearest restroom. “Also, please stop cussing, it’s…weird.”_

_It always baffled Beca how, and who, and_ why _anyone would ever want to find it in themselves to bully another, let alone Chloe Beale. Unfortunately, High School politics, just like any politics really, are not black and white. Just by retaining positively deemed qualities – kindness, intelligence, good looks, and etcetera - does not mean someone is exempt from being placed on others’ radars. Chloe was a prime example of that._

_She was all those things and more. Beautiful, sensible, considerate, and she also got pushed into walls and had nasty notes left in her lockers on a frequent basis. Chloe never went out of her way to be unpleasant with anyone, yet a select few ‘queen bees’ made it their personal vendetta to torture the ginger. Still, Chloe never outright expressed her upset at being a victim of such trivial, immature actions, insisting that things could be much, much worse. Nor did Chloe report any harassment because she “didn’t want anyone to get in trouble.”_

_One of these days, Beca swore_ she _was going to be the one to get expelled due to excessive use of violence against another student. Or maybe she’d get suspended for foul language, because ever since she’d seen Easy A, it had been her dream to call someone an “abominable twat.” Her willingness to abide by Chloe’s wishes to stay pacifistic and not break noses was dwindling._

_Once inside the restroom, Beca motions for Chloe to sit on the sink and busies herself cranking paper towels from the dispenser and wetting a few of them, ready to tackle the task of treating Chloe’s wound (as well as possible with the available materials). The brunette stands in front of the Chloe - between her knees but at a respectable distance - and removes her hand once again, pleased to find the bleeding has mostly stopped. Beca gingerly dabs away the dried blood surrounding the injury._

_“Do you know who did it?” Beca’s sharp question breaks the silence._

_A weak response follows, “No. I mean, I can guess, but it’s not a big deal. I don’t really care.”_

_“I do, Chloe.” Beca snaps, her hand dropping and she frowns at her patient. “I care. This…it can’t happen, this can’t be a_ thing _.” Her hands flail, as if trying to grasp at a concept she can’t vocalize, wanting to wave it in front of Chloe’s face instead. “People can’t do this to you. You do know that, right?”_

_Chloe’s demeanor softens, “Beca, it’s no big deal, and I don’t want to turn it into one, okay?” Sparkling, marbled eyes turn to steel, and her hand reaches out to grasp Beca’s, hoping the motion conveys the truth that the brunette can’t seem to hear in her words. The tension in Beca’s hand and tightness of her jaw don’t ease up. Frankly, Beca didn’t care what Chloe wanted at the moment. Beca wanted to find whoever was assaulting her best friend, inform them of their new identifier, The Abominable Twat, and break their nose. That was always her first instinct when these things happened._

_Beca huffs and resumes wiping at the wound. Moments pass, and Beca can feel Chloe breathing slowly, trying to read her mind, but Beca wasn’t about to let her. Sure, they were best friends, but letting her all the way in would result in all sorts of disastrous conversations and situations that Beca was not ready to have. No matter what she thought on a daily basis, how much she was certain of, she was nowhere near ready to explain aloud why Chloe Beale was her favorite part of every day._

_“They’re probably just jealous.” Her eyes flicker everywhere except to meet Chloe’s. “Because you’re prettier than them.”_

_A soft laugh breaks through Chloe’s lips and her fingers play heedlessly at the hem of Beca’s shirt, but the brunette refuses to pay attention to the action. She knows that Chloe probably doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. Content with her clean up, Beca tosses the paper towels into the trash bin and grabs the hand that Chloe had held to her head. She turns the water on and pulls the stained hand under the faucet, then proceeds to scrub the red off of Chloe’s skin with the pink liquid soap._

_“I don’t need to be liked by everyone. I don’t need popularity. I’m totally fine. I have you.”_

_Beca doesn’t even have to look at her to know she’s smiling; she can hear it in her voice. It wouldn’t have been an inconvenience to look at her, but Beca’s eyes were glued to their hands, and her mind had gone far away, to vengeful and contemplative places, because this was not fair. Chloe didn’t deserve this kind of treatment, and Beca didn’t know what to do to make it stop. Beca doesn’t register when Chloe’s free hand squeezes her bicep; the ginger has to brush the back of her hand against Beca’s cheek down to trace her jaw, prompting the brunette to come back to her. “Right, Becs?”_

_She inhales deeply through her nose and releases it through her mouth with an involuntary half smile. “Right, Chlo.”_

Beca had never realized, but she and Chloe’s roles had switched often. One day she would be the caring one, and the next be in need of being taken care of. It was simple and effective, and really, she believed that was a fundamental part of any relationship. Chloe’s voice snaps her out of her trance.

 

“Are you okay? Do you feel lightheaded?”

 

She was lightheaded, but for more reasons than one. “Dude, no. I’m fine. It’s all good…good in the hood.” As if that wasn’t random enough, she whimpers “Dawg,” a second later.

 

She presses her lips tightly and pulls them into her mouth, in disbelief at the words she was hearing, because they were unfortunately coming from _her_ , and she was once again reminded of how Chloe could reduce her to an awkward, bumbling mess. Chloe bats her black lashes with her eyebrows raised, more in shock than in judgement. Beca’s breathes out heavily, hoping to expel some anxiety before daring to open her mouth again.

 

“I’m…gonna…” She stares at her hands, fidgeting together, not sure what to do with the absence of a ring to twist. “Go. I should go.” She nods, as if she’s sure it’s the best decision she’s made all day. (Which it probably is).

 

She pushes herself to her feet, gesturing to the large cup on the steps, “Thank you for not letting me, you know. Die.” She absentmindedly tugs on her ponytail with one hand and to no avail pushes back fine flyaways and baby hairs with the other.

 

“Of course,” Chloe answers simply, standing up and hopping off the steps, locking her hands together behind her back. “Won’t let you get away from me that easily this time, Becs.” The smile she offers shreds the tension in the air to tiny, insignificant bits, even though she had just alluded to the one thing they had a silent consensus to _never_ discuss. Chloe wouldn’t have considered it a decent conversation without some graceless utterances coming from the brunette.

 

Neither say a good-bye as Beca departs down the stone walkway. Even if she did have a response, she wasn’t sure if she had the nerve to vocalize it. What was she supposed to say? Part of her wanted to scream to the world that she didn’t care what anyone thought of her decisions, not even Chloe, and that it was no one else’s business. But that would be a lie. The deepest, truest part of her wanted to run up to Chloe and beg for forgiveness, explain to her every thought and doubt that led her to cutting ties for so long, ask her how long she’s really known of Beca’s adoration.

 

Beca uses those long, fifteen seconds down the steps to ponder Chloe’s final words, her promise, to come to a decision – a half-assed, poorly thought through decision.

 

“Chloe!” She calls as she spins to face the redhead, who is still standing and watching with that beaming Hollywood smile, rocking from her heels to her toes. Her head tilts slightly in recognition of the brunette’s shout.

 

Beca steadies herself, determined to sound clear and confident despite her nervous hair tugging and shuffling feet. “I’ll see you later?”

 

Chloe’s eyes widen, having expected a loophole to an invitation to be the last thing to come from Beca. Hell, _Beca_ never thought she’d have the guts to speak to Chloe as much as she had in the past two days, not when they were on such thin ice.

 

Bright blue eyes crinkle against the rising cheeks of Chloe’s open smile, and she gives a single nod.

 

Beca has no idea why she does the things she does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's installment number two. If you continue to enjoy it, I will continue to write the way I have been with the flashbacks and current events. Thank you so much for reading! Please review if you enjoyed and feel inclined to do so :)


	3. Fruit

Chapter Three

Her hands are firmly placed at two and ten on the steering wheel, arms bent and welded at a permanent 120 degree angle.

_Don’t do this, Beca. You turn this car around this second!_

The same words have been scrolling through her head since she’d clicked her seatbelt into the latch, though she hadn’t even begun moving at that point, and by now the phrases had an effect similar to her dad’s scratchy, overplayed _Eagles_ record. Beca knew how it went, how it would sound beginning to end, in reverse, and she might have even started thinking it in a British accent at one point _just_ to change it up. No matter how it was said or interpreted, the words would were not coming to fruition. She wasn’t going to listen. She was just looking for a way to make herself believe that she wasn’t about to voluntarily jump into what _could_ be a war zone _just_ as easily as it could be a sanctuary.

She was quite ineffective at telling herself to stay away lately.

The previous day, during her run, her own pleas had been a little more convincing because she was uncertain of the outcome. Truthfully, she was still hesitant, but Chloe’s openness and failure to push her away had sprinkled some hope over Beca’s petite frame and perpetual indecision.

Her Jeep, en-route to Chloe’s house, surged onward, hurdled over the potholes and speed bumps on the road. Nothing was capable of skewing her path.

 _Okay_ , if a dog or a kid ran out, she would totally stop, but she was _really_ hoping that wouldn’t happen – knock on wood.

She felt awfully impotent in making her own decisions these days, her mind shutting off whenever her body went on autopilot. Was this her smartest move? Of course not. But was anything she did lately smart? Was putting that pencil in the microwave like Amy dared her to do smart? Her household’s lack of a microwave and obligation to buy a new one told her it most likely was not. Was eating that entire plate of brownies smart? Any health conscious person would probably frown upon the act. Was “accidentally” running up to Chloe yesterday during her spontaneous run smart? _Fuck_ no.

‘Smart’ definitely was not the proper word to describe her actions. It was more needy than anything else; a sloping valley in her being, desperate to be filled with interaction and for her curiosities to be entertained. What was it like to be around Chloe again? How long could she push until the redhead pushed back, demanding answers?

Her curiosity, she concluded, was what resulted in her showing up unannounced at Chloe’s house _once again_ , substantially less sweaty, hair twirled a little more than usual, eyeliner a smudge thinner, hoping that the redhead was in a decent mood. She was – she had to be – she _always_ was.

Beca parked her car along the curb bordering Chloe’s home and shook herself out. Shaking what, she wasn’t totally sure; it was a mixture: nerves, anxiety, hope, faith, and hints of anticipation.

Her fist weakly rapped on the wooden door three times, and for a second she wondered if anyone was even able to hear it. The fist hung in the air, contemplating whether to meet the wood once more or to fall down. It followed the latter path once the doorknob began to jiggle, being unlocked and pulled ajar.

“Beca?”

The redhead stood, hair pulled up into a bun with twists of hair teasing her cheeks. Her eyebrows rise before furrowing in confusion, a curious tilt to her head throwing her slightly off balance. “What…what are you doing here?” She must have caught on to the unpleasant tone carried in her voice, because she immediately spoke to amend her greeting. “I mean, it’s not that I’m not happy to see you. This is just unusual…not in a weird way! Just totally unexpected.” Beca stays silent, a smirk barely gracing her lips; Chloe’s hand pushes her hair back with a sigh.

“Hi,” she says with a smile, having gotten through the initial shock of seeing Beca at her door, unease sliding down and off of her body to puddle on the ground.

“Yeah, hey,” Beca says, shifting her weight to her right leg and playing with the tie at the hem of her sleeveless button down shirt, the light blue one that Amy said made her look like a mom from the 50’s. “What are you doing?”

“I was reading. Well, studying.” She waves her hand downward and pauses, “Or trying to…” then curves it around and brings it to her mouth to chew on her thumbnail. “YouTube may or may not have been distracting me.”

Beca feels half of her mouth shoot upward forcefully in response to the devious twinkle in the blue orbs meeting hers. “Okay, so,” she starts, rocking over to rest her weight on the opposite leg. Chloe’s unease had trickled over to Beca and her body absorbed it like a sponge. “Do you, um…well I mean you _should_. Come with me, I mean. Right now.” When Chloe doesn’t respond right away, the part of her brain labeled ‘When in Doubt, Be Awkward’ overcomes the rest of her and decides it’s better to ramble than to let a dead air settle between them. “Or not. It’s totally cool if you can’t, or don’t want to. No problem-o. I have…you know…other stuff.”

Chloe doesn’t speak; instead, her lips press together – not in discomfort, more in contemplation – and she slides away from the door and out of view, leaving Beca in the open doorway.

“Okay. Bye,” Beca utters pathetically.

Chloe’s voice pleas from inside the house, “Wait there!” Not a minute later, she appears at the door, purse slung across her shoulder, and pulls the door close behind her, securing it with a twist of her key in the top lock.

“Alrighty! Where are we off to?”

……

In complete honesty, Beca had not thought through what she would actually do if Chloe agreed to join her. She was expecting one of two scenarios: either Chloe wouldn’t answer the door in the first place and she could go home without facing an overwhelming amount of embarrassment; or, Chloe would answer and tell her to leave and Beca would go home and lock herself in her room for a few hours. Or days.

This? This was a shock to her system.

It was as though they were taken back two years, walking in unison and laughing at all the same jokes. The tension was there – of course it was – but it was very miniscule and only a noticeable burden during extended periods of silence. Aside from that, they had gotten beverages at Sonic and made small talk during the car ride to the used book store downtown, at Chloe’s suggestion. They used to frequent the store once upon a time, when times were simple and they were closer. Chloe didn’t hesitate to sing along to the songs coming from the radio, but the most Beca did was hum along to the songs she deemed worthy.

Chloe holds the red straw of her cherry limeade between her teeth, habitually biting and deforming it, and walked ahead of Beca a few paces to reach for a book on a shelf.

“Oh! I remember this book! We read it junior year, remember?”

Beca sips her strawberry smoothie and grabs a replica of the book to examine it. “ _The Awakening_ by Kate Chopin…” Her face contorts at the unpleasant memory of the novel clashing with the sweetness of her drink. It had been assigned to them and Beca had waited until the very last day read it, only to get a 40 on the test the following day. “Gross. Isn’t it the one where she cheats on her husband and then drowns because she swims too far out?”

Chloe hums, “Well…yes, but there was so much more to it than that.” Her fingers tap on her Styrofoam cup to an unheard tune. “It’s a very well-known feminist novel about how a woman is able to find and define herself without being held down by anyone else. She becomes a kind of social deviant.” Chloe admires the cover, staring at the muddy image of a woman leaning against a railing, before flipping it to view the back, and then returns the book to its shelf.

“When you speed read a book in less than four hours, you tend to miss out on the whole ‘life lesson’ thing.” Beca remarks, to which Chloe scoffs, walking backwards to respond, “And _that_ kind of thing is why you barely passed that class with a 72,” before pivoting to continue down the aisle.

Glad the redhead couldn’t see her current expression, Beca grinned and followed behind her, wondering how Chloe remembered her final grade. They shared English III, but their relationship had begun its downward spiral by then. She should have known that Chloe would have still paid attention. Beca was never very English and Literature oriented – which was odd, figuring her father was an English professor, but also it made perfect sense because she refused to ask him for help – she didn’t really have a favorite subject. If she had to pick, the subjects that had solid answers, ones that required no personal input, were her favorite. Chloe, on the other hand, was the polar opposite: she was excellent at English, and was incredibly lousy at science; particularly, Biology.

_“Beca,” the redhead drags out the “a” in her name, sounding miserable, “It just makes no sense! Why do I have to know how a cell divides? When am I ever going to need to know this?”_

_Beca sighs heavily, annoyed at having to repeat herself for the third time. “Chlo, it’s really not that hard. PMAT. Prophase, Metaphase, Anaphase, and Telophase.” She writes a large P, M, A, and T onto a paper and slides it across the kitchen table to Chloe. Her bottom lip pouts, and she whimpers like Beca had just slid a plate of steamed carrots – the worst creation in the world, according to Chloe – in front of her and commanded her to eat them._

_Beca takes a deep breath, reminding herself to be patient with her friend. “Now write down the basic information for each step.” She provides a quaint smile. “You can do it!”_

_“You can’t just throw me to the wolves here, Bec!” Beca scoffs, entirely disagreeing with Chloe’s accusation. She was literally doing the opposite, preparing her to fight off the wolves. And by wolves, she meant the biology test on Thurdsay. “I don’t know hardly any of this.” She flops her upper body onto the table and whimpers like she’s going to cry. It is overly dramatic, and Chloe’s antics are one of the few things that make Beca giggle like she was right now._

_“Becs,” She crosses her arms and lays her head in the hole between them, peeking out at Beca from over her bicep. “Can we take a break? There’s a new season of Grey’s Anatomy on Netflix.”_

_Her eyes are scintillating in the light shining through the kitchen window. Beca was nearly being transported to another dimension; the blue in her eyes seemed to swirl like water being sucked into an oceanic cave, pulling Beca with it down to the depths. Only, Beca wasn’t acting on her instincts, wasn’t resisting the current. She was allowing herself to be devoured._

_“I guess we can do that,” Beca sighs and reaches over to mess up Chloe’s hair, flinging it in every which way. “As long as there will be ice cream.” Her brow quirks up playfully._

_The redhead lifts her head up, her hair tousled comically, revealing a warm smile – not that Beca had to see her mouth to know she was smiling; she could see it in her eyes – and reaches over to squeeze Beca’s arm, running it down the length of it to grab her hand and pull her towards the kitchen._

_“Mint chocolate chip or strawberry?”_

Beca follows Chloe mindlessly – she doesn’t think she would notice if Chloe were to lead her to a pit of quicksand until it was too late – listening to the redhead point out a number of books. It’s kind of hard to keep her attention off of Chloe’s body while she’s walking ahead of her. And it is totally unfair, because she is almost positive the redhead is adding a little more swing to her hips, and it’s driving Beca mildly insane.

“You’re bored. Why did you agree to come here?” Chloe asks out of nowhere, and Beca can hear a bitter twang in her tone. It makes Beca scowl; why wouldn’t she agree to come? She trails behind, Chloe weaving hastily down the short aisles, bumping into the corners of shelves. Beca knew this all too well. Angry Chloe was a harsh and icy person, and was even less afraid of confrontation than bubbly Chloe. If she could look into her eyes, she would see a storm was brewing amongst the blue.

Beca replies hesitantly, trying to sound sweet and content. “I’m not bored. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But she really should have known that Chloe would catch on to the change – the fakeness – of her tone. Beca hurries to keep up, and realizes they’ve approached a corner of the store, the one containing DIY and ‘ _For Dummies’_ books.

In a flash, Chloe halts and spins around, stopping Beca’s movement with her own body. Beca grunts at the contact and tries to step back, but Chloe grabs her wrist and sidesteps, rotating the brunette as well, and steps into her to push her back against a shelf. Beca thinks for a moment that Chloe deserves a medal for making everything she did so graceful, but then remembers: she’s pinned against a bookshelf by the redhead who is causing her way too much inner conflict.

“Chlo, what-“

“Do _not_ call me that right now. What are you _doing_ , Beca?” The redhead questions, a tension in her jaw making her lips purse, and a crease between her brows making her appear pained. Which, Beca realizes, might be incredibly close to the truth. _She_ was the one to leave, and now _she_ was the one nudging back into Chloe’s life. It had only been two short instances thus far, this being the third, but it must have been enough to tear open the years of memories Chloe held deep inside. It must have been painful. If only she knew that Beca had never sewn the memories away in the first place.

“I’m…looking at books with you,” Beca answers tentatively, knowing it’s not the answer Chloe wants. What else is she supposed to say, with Chloe’s torso pressed up against hers? With their noses separating their lips by barely an inch?

“No, _Beca_ ,” She spits out, “You know what I mean.” The girl inhales deeply through her nose and rolls her lips together, and the anger empties from her eyes, replaced with confusion and agony and _need_. “Why are you back here?” She whispers, her head shaking faintly, “Why are you back here, with me?”

Beca knows that if she says something like ‘because you led me here,’ Chloe would probably slap her. The truth is, she doesn’t have the answer that Chloe is looking for. Chloe wants explanations, wants to understand Beca’s reasoning. Only, Beca doesn’t even understand her reasoning, so how could she possibly attempt to describe it to someone else? Beca’s free hand searches for Chloe’s, her fingers skimming light as a feather up the back of it until it reaches her wrist, where she holds it gently and rubs her thumb over the veins there. It catches Chloe off guard; she can tell by the way her breath catches for a moment, a split second lapse in the feeling of air being expelled against Beca’s lips. The moment gives Beca time to silently thank the blood coursing through Chloe’s veins for keeping her alive, for pumping through her body and allowing her heart to love so intensely. Because she knows that’s what is going through Chloe’s head; she wouldn’t ask if she didn’t care, if she didn’t feel some form of love.

And that makes Beca’s decision so much easier.

“I’m here because I want to be.” She murmurs, watching the irises in Chloe’s eyes move and expand as she surveys Beca’s every facial movement, before tilting her head and tipping it forward. Her lips press into Chloe’s, fitting like two matched puzzle pieces. Chloe doesn’t hesitate retaliating, releasing Beca’s hand, trailing up and over the brunette’s shoulder to wrap behind her neck, pulling her in closer and kissing her back with everything she has to offer. She tugs, and Beca pushes back with equal measure.

At this point, their brains are absent of thought.

Chloe breaks away first, but only to take a breath and angle her head before meeting Beca’s lips again. She raises her other hand out of Beca’s grip to bury it in the brunette’s hair, cradling her head, and Beca’s hands instinctually move to grasp the redhead’s waist and wrap around her.

It’s intense, and it’s sending fiery pulses through Beca’s body straight down to the section between her hips, right where Chloe pushes into her the hardest. She can feel her heart beating in her head, and knows Chloe feels it too when her hand slides to rest against Beca’s jaw, her thumb caressing over the pulse. She feels invigorated, confident, and lightly tugs on Chloe’s lip with her teeth, welcoming the light whimper that follows. The air is full of sparks and rapid breathing and the smacking of lips, and Beca nearly loses it when Chloe moves against her with a strained, esurient groan.

Then, as if the sound had breached their envelope of secrecy and refusal to recognize just what was happening, Chloe gasps against Beca’s mouth before pulling away, leaving both of their fronts exposed to the cold air. Chloe’s hand rises to hover over her mouth, her middle finger brushing her bottom lip with a hazy, dreamy expression.

Beca pants lightly and knows her face is indefinitely flushed. Her tongue slides over her lips, and she gains some sense of satisfaction from seeing Chloe imitate her.

“I think we should go,” the redhead breathes out, nodding her head as though she’s trying to convince herself. “Home. I should go home.”

Beca fights hard against the anxiety rising in her chest – she much preferred the Chloe induced trail of fire – because although she knows Chloe isn’t regretting anything that had just conspired – the way she responded told Beca as much – she does know that the past five minutes had been impulsive. And usually, impulsive actions equal complicated situations. As if their situation wasn’t complicated enough already.

“Yeah,” Beca agrees and rakes her hand through her hair, “Let’s go.”

But when Beca drops Chloe off at her house, she can still taste cherry on her lips. And from the way Chloe can’t stop moving her mouth around and biting at her bottom lip, Beca knows she can taste strawberry.

=============

Beca was posing an important philosophical question: why did people get jobs if they weren’t going to show up?

When people choose not to show up for their shift, it kick starts a very annoying chain of events that not only permanently disrupts Beca’s day (which is meant to be spent _off_ ), but also worsens her (most likely) already less-than-peachy mood.

One of the new girls – Ashley? – had called in ten minutes after the start of her shift claiming that she had a killer migraine, meaning Beca had to rush out of bed and haul her ass to the record store, stat. She didn’t even have time to fill up her thermos – the one designed with silver pearlescent piano keys – with a much needed dose of caffeine. She stumbled out of the front like she’d just risen from the grave, responding to “Step-Monster” Sheila’s comment about how ridiculous it was that she was barely getting out of bed with a toss of her middle finger over her shoulder once the door was closed.

She had some news for Sheila. One: it was (supposed to be) her day off, she could sleep in if she wanted to. Two: she hadn’t gotten to bed until nearly four in the morning, thanks to the thoughts of a certain redhead trotting through her mind and knocking on her emotions with her manicured fists.

She wouldn’t include number two in a conversation with…well _anyone_ , but that didn’t made it any less valid.

Beca had been trying her best for the past sixteen hours to not think about the kiss, but like every song, television show, and movie warns, it had stuck in the forefront of her mind all night. She guessed it was a blessing to be called in; that way, she would at least have responsibilities to distract her from the redhead.

 

Thus, here she was, leaning over the glass top counter in the front of the store, the buttons of her wrinkled oversized work shirt pushed through the wrong holes, tapping one toe against the ground and poking harshly at her cheek in an attempt to jerk her into a state of awareness.

It wasn’t working, seeing as no part of her acknowledged the tell-tale chime of the bell above the door, signaling someone’s entrance.

Her head timbered down and landed heavily in her hands. She started to think that _maybe_ if she went to get a candy bar during her break, maybe if she got some sugar in her system, she would feel better. A content smile had begun to spread across her cheeks at her decision to get a Crunch bar, when a vinyl landed on the counter and slid against her elbows. She didn’t even have to see the whole cover. The unsteady “T.S.” written at the bottom was all the hint she needed.

Of all the records in the store. It had to be another _1989_ vinyl.

But oh, that wasn’t even the worst of it.

Beca painstakingly lifted her head from her hands and her eyes landed – to her utter dismay – on a familiar face, topped with a head of brown hair and a nice guy smirk that made her entire body tense up.

A quick, rueful chuckle obnoxiously wrenched itself from the back of her throat. Of _course_. _Of course_!

Her teeth grind together. “Tom. Fallen victim to the good old Taylor Swift mind control, I see.” She stands up, trying to look bigger than she really is, because Tom is really fucking tall and it’s slightly intimidating.

Although, she really had no reason to be intimidated. He wasn’t going to hurt her or anything of the sort. His old relations with Chloe, however, she knew would inevitably serve to be quite an annoying subject of conversation within the next few minutes.

_Chloe is just so excited. How is Beca supposed to take that from her?_

_Exactly. She can’t._

_“I can’t believe he wants to take me out! Me!”_

_It’s ridiculously hot outside, so Beca swings her legs more vigorously to gain some momentum and feel a breeze. “I don’t see why you’re so surprised. You’re pretty and nice to, like, everyone. Why wouldn’t he ask you?”_

_“Uh, because he’s Tom Harris? He should be asking Heather Morin. She’s popular.”_

_Beca thinks that’s a stupid reason to be so shocked._

_Chloe continues, averting back to being happy about the news, her smile never losing its intensity. “He said he wants to take me to dinner, and then go walk around that really nice park downtown. You know the one?”_

_Beca raises an eyebrow, “The one with the duck pond, or the one with the canopy and strings of lights that go on at night?”_

_“Becs. It’s a date.” Chloe drags her feet against the ground beneath her to slow herself down and looks at Beca like she’d just suggested they eat grass. “Which do you_ think _?”_

_It comes out a little harsh, and it brings a frown to Beca’s face, but sometimes Chloe speaks without thinking, and Beca knows that. She knows she’s just ecstatic, and wants Beca to share in her excitement instead of making wisecracks. What bothers her though, is that Chloe actually took her question seriously. If anyone could detect Beca’s sarcasm, it was supposed to be Chloe._

_The redheads smile is back in place and she’d begun kicking her legs again. “Doesn’t that sound nice?”_

_And actually, no, that did not sound nice to Beca. That sounded extremely cliché._

_“Awes,” Beca smiles tightly. “I just…really want you to be careful, okay?” Her hand rakes through her messy brown curls. Messy, because it was a school day, and getting dolled up on a school day was typically a huge N-O for Beca. “High school guys can be huuuge fuck heads, and I can totally sneak out and take my dad’s car to save you if he tries anything even though I don’t have my license yet,” her words keep pouring out, anything but concise, “But the last thing I need right now is a cracked knuckle and to be sent to correctional school, because with my luck that_ will _happen and then we won’t have chemistry together anymore.”_

_She finally stops, sucking in and blowing out a large portion of air. Lastly: “Which would suck and you would definitely fail.”_

_“Oh my goodness, Beca, I’ll be fine! Take a breather, will ya!” She giggles and smacks Beca on the arm when she and Beca’s swings cross at the bottom. She doesn’t have a rebuttal for the failing comment though, because she is fully aware of her scientific incapability. “I still don’t think you had to punch Jonathan, though. One boy shouldn’t make you stereotype every teenage boy as a…butt head.” Her nose scrunches up in refusal to repeat Beca’s foul insult._

_Beca gapes, and now she’s the one to stop her movement using her foot as a brake. “Chloe! He was saying he took my bra home with him! We went on_ one _date, and it was terrible! Who the fuck says that?”_

_The giggles follow the redhead to and fro as she lets gravity slow her down. “Violence isn’t always the right answer, Beca.” Chloe informs her, reaching over to grab Beca’s swing chain._

_  
“It sure is the easiest answer.” Beca grumbles back. Chloe had heard it so many times before. It was basically her mantra. If she ever wrote a book, the first half would be about how to avoid others and maintain emotional, physical, mental, and spiritual safety, and the second half would explain that when avoidance failed, a fist was your next best bet._

_Chloe pulls herself over to Beca via swing chain and hooks her legs around one of the brunette’s legs, beckoning her to turn as well. She abides, allowing Chloe to intertwine their feet and keep them angled slightly towards the middle._

_She tilts her head up to look at the sky, but Beca can see a trace of mischief tainting her face before it’s skewed by the angle of her head. “I think I’ve seen you in action enough for me to defend myself this time around.”_

“Ha-ha, Mitchell. Always the joker.” His large hand raises to rub the back of his neck, and for no apparent reason it makes her want to point to the door and tell him to get out. He leans into the counter, both arms spread out to keep himself stable. Beca –because she hates him and automatically assumes he’s being douchey – feels as though he is trying to exert some sort of superiority, with his comb over and his Abercrombie polo.

But…he’s really not a horrible guy, and Beca knows it. She couldn’t count the number of colorful bouquets he’d given Chloe if she wanted to. Couldn’t recall all the times she’d seen him hold doors open for her, told her how perfect she is in front of all his friends, kissed the top of her hand. He was exactly what Chloe always said she wanted, and Beca guessed that’s what made her hate him. She so desperately and selfishly wanted him to mess up somehow, to be a jerk, so that she could have a _reason_ to hate him. (That thought was always followed with a pang of guilt. What kind of friend was she, wishing misfortune upon her best friend?)

She wanted there to be a reason for Chloe to hate him. She never did though. She had been the one to sever the relationship in the end, claiming they just weren’t right for one another, but not once did she hold him in contempt. She had said after they broke up that it felt like the weight of the world had been lifted from her shoulders.

Beca huffs, suddenly self-conscious of her wrinkly shirt and messy ponytail. Her hands move swiftly to grab the vinyl and run it over the scanner, eager to get rid of Tom. The rate at which his demeanor shifts is unnerving, his fingers tapping to no apparent rhythm, breathing unsteadily, making clicking noises with his mouth. His obvious anxiety was summoning emotions in Beca that she never touched; for example: concern. Concern was kept in a deep, dark corner where Beca’s mind rarely shone a light.

“Do you think Chloe will like it?”

Her movements come to an abrupt halt. She flicks her eyes up, feeling a frown crease her brow. His lips are pressed together and his cheeks are flaming.

“Tom, what are you talking about?” She’s too tired to be dealing with this shit.

“I…I just wanted to get her something.” He stutters.

“Okay, but…” Beca turns her head slightly and squints, “Why? You’re not together anymore, you know that right? The whole no obligation thing?”

It’s harsh, and Beca regrets it the second it comes out. But her concern quickly morphed into pity, and she refused to throw anyone a pity party, so she immediately turned that pity into spite.

Did _Tom_ kiss Chloe yesterday? She didn’t think so.

His brown eyes darken and his mouth falls, making him look almost nauseous. “Yeah, I know. I just…I don’t know. She’s leaving to college next week, and I just wanted to do something nice for her.” Next week? “We’re not a couple, but we’re still friends. It’s a good luck gift.” Why hasn’t she said anything? Tom’s talking, but she’s not hearing what he’s saying. Invisible needles are pricking their way from her neck to her toes, and she’s pretty sure she’s stopped breathing at this point.

“Next week?” She asks. If he was going to be here, she might as well squeeze as much information from him as possible.

“Yep,” he elaborates, “Tuesday.”

Beca’s pulse slows, her veins freezing over. Tuesday. Today was Friday. That was way too soon. “Already? Are you serious?”

He nods. “Freshman orientation at Berklee is Wednesday, so she’s going to head up and move her things in early.”

“ _Berklee_?” Beca shrieks. What happened to Barden? What happened to her full ride? Berklee was in fucking _Massachusetts!_ Barden was only a couple hours away, but Berklee was in the top half of the United States!

He sighs with an impressed smile, “Isn’t it awesome? They contacted her near the end of the year, said they saw the clip of her solo from Nationals. They found out that Barden offered her a full ride, and countered it with one of their own.”

Spots were dotting Beca’s vision, and she felt as though she weren’t even in her own body anymore. She didn’t really expect Chloe to have told her, but she _was_ surprised the girl didn’t want to share it with her. Well…not necessarily surprised. She had no right to expect anything from Chloe. She just would have hoped that Chloe would have _wanted_ to tell her about something so huge. Knowing she had less than a week with Chloe – with Chloe? – she felt as though time had sped up and was ticking by at an alarming rate. Like she had slept past her alarm on a school day.

You can’t just kiss someone the way Chloe had kissed her, and leave without another word. Something told Beca that Chloe wouldn’t let what had happened be forgotten – ever. But with the way Chloe had pried herself away and urged to leave, Beca didn’t know how Chloe expected to discuss it without some sort of tension, whether it be sexual or angry. Tension, she could deal with.

Never seeing or talking to Chloe again? Her survival rates were low.

“She’ll love it,” Beca says with a polite smile, devoid of emotion. “That’ll be twenty dollars and nineteen cents.”

 

**I really apologize for updates being so far and few in between. I've been writing college applications more than anything else, but I swear I will finish this fic! I'm thinking five chapters. Let me know what you think, and thank you for reading! I also apologize for any errors, I'm taking a break and going to a haunted house tonight and need to get ready. Feel free to contact me on tumblr: Cloverbomb**


	4. Typical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Language, slight mention of alcohol, and implied mature themes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should probably state the obvious and say that I do not own any of the characters I've been using, nor the songs. List of songs will be at the end! Also, super sorry for the update delay. School and applications and sleep and all that jazz have been quite demanding. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this chapter, and please excuse the mistakes. It's been a monster, and I'm really not all that happy with it, but I'm not going to dwell on it. Happy reading!

“I don’t believe you.”

 

“Have I ever lied to you, Beca?” Asks a voice, the name sounding more like ‘Becker’ due the blonde speaker’s accent. Beca scrambles away from a menacing hand as it reaches out to ruffle her hair.

 

Amy had burst into the brunette’s room minutes before and raced to stand next to the bed, where Beca sat filling out college applications begrudgingly, and begun flailing her arms as she delivered her pressing news. She also, to Beca’s dismay, refused to answer any questions concerning just how she got into the locked house.

 

“Ugh,” Beca scoffs, tuck-and-rolling away from Amy’s diabolical hand, as though her already-frizzy mane would benefit from being rescued. “Amy, I swear to-,” and not until she’s clutching her elbow on the floor and groaning in pain does she remember just how narrow her bed is.

 

Amy flops front first onto the bed and shimmies to the edge to peer at Beca. “For the record, I take no responsibility for that.”

 

“You’re evil.” Beca mutters back. “And a liar. You are an evil liar!” Her pointer finger shoots out to jab Amy’s forehead.

 

The assailant bats Beca’s finger away. “Now, now, don’t be rash, short stack. I admit, I might have lied to you when I told you your microwave wouldn’t explode if you put a pencil in it, but-”

 

“We could have burnt the house down!” Screeches Beca from her position on the floor before getting a face full of pillow.

 

“But! This is serious!” The blonde assures, “It would just be cruel of me if I lied to you about something like this.”

 

“Calvin-fucking-Harris is _not_ coming to our tiny ass town, Amy.” Beca insists with a scowl darkening her face, never having been so sure about anything else in her life. She’s quite positive that if a famous DJ like Calvin Harris were coming to town, _she_ of all people would know about it. As much as she wanted something spectacular to happen – like one of her favorite artists to make a pit stop in her crappy little hometown – she also knew she had to keep her head on straight and think realistically. Like an ‘adult’ or whatever. _Fuck_ being eighteen.

 

“Shh,” Amy reaches down to place an index finger to Beca’s mouth and stop her from spewing her negativity. “Beca, Beca, come on, just _trust_ me!”

 

She’s heard that one before. On a side not, as an adult, she should probably learn how to say ‘no.’

 

_If anyone were to have told Beca that the first live performance she’d attend would be a country concert, she’d have crippled over in a fit of laughter and tears before being able to ask the speaker if they knew just how idiotic they sounded. She doesn’t even listen to country. The only country song she knows is that one about the keys in the four wheel drive and the Louisville slugger, because Chloe blasted that song for weeks after her second breakup – which was far less than clean, by the way. There’s no way she’d have even considered going tonight if it weren’t for Chloe begging her over the phone hours before, telling her she bought the tickets already and promising that she would buy her a snow cone once they got there._

_Her life was pretty jam-packed of “if it weren’t for Chloe” moments._

_What could she say? Chloe could dare her to tackle Queen Elizabeth in exchange for a bag of Cheetos, and she’d probably do it – mostly just because it was Chloe asking though, the Cheetos wouldn’t really play a substantial part in her decision making process. She might act stubborn and difficult, but only because it was entertaining. Beca would do nearly anything Chloe were to ask of her, and she was fully aware of how wildly that could affect her life._

_Even if the redhead_ was _relentless with her teasing remarks about how Beca’s one weakness, apparently, was shaved ice. Seriously. How could someone make fun of snow cones?_

_“You’re not going to start talking with a southern accent at any point tonight, are you?”_

_Chloe winks theatrically, and Beca curses inwardly at herself for giving her the idea. The redhead accepts and executes the challenge effortlessly, sounding like she’d spent the day with Miranda Lambert. And in all honesty, it’s quite fitting. “You better be nice, or you won’t get your snow cone anytime soon.”_

_“Dude, you can’t do that!” The back of Beca’s hand smacks lightly against the other girl’s forearm, “That snow cone was part of the deal, and I want it,” She glances down at her watch-less wrist, “Uh, now.”_

_Chloe giggles and grabs hold of Beca’s hand, leading her through the crowd of Cowboy boots and gingham patterned shirts mingling around the fairgrounds. Spring blooms were budding and sprouts sought light above the soil, lit up by orangey rays coming from setting sun in the horizon. The flowers and light grasses were beautiful, but the pollen in the air made Beca’s eyes feel puffy, and she constantly felt like she had to sneeze, though she never did._

_Chloe, cheery, postured, and looking not at all uncomfortable in the midst of the changing seasons, wore brown boots that stretched to mid-calf and a pink and white checked button up. A dark brown Cowboy hat – when and where had she gotten that? – rested atop her head and spilled red curls. Beca, on the other hand, looked like she belonged in a Target ad instead of at a country concert. She was perfectly content with her purple plaid and strategically torn jeans._

_Still, Chloe chided her in the car about not being a team player and dressing for the occasion. Beca told her with a sassy and purposely over-the-top flip of her hair that she should be thanking her for not wearing a David Guetta t-shirt. Beca didn’t know what she was expecting, but it definitely wasn’t the dangerous glint that lit up the driver’s eyes, nor her response of, “That wouldn’t have been a terrible idea.”_

_She wasn’t really sure what that was supposed to mean._

_They reach a dainty snow cone truck, silvery and looking like it belongs on beach, and Beca gives Chloe her order so she can follow through on her promise. She turns around a minute later with a heaping styrofoam cup of shaved ice drenched in coconut flavored syrup._

_“Thank you, Chloe,” Beca hums, following behind Chloe in the direction of the stage to find a plush grassy area to sit. The redhead’s arms spread open as she walked ahead, tilting her upper body side to side, the slight breeze forcing its way into her shirt through the gaps between buttons and making it inflate like a parachute around her lean body._

Free _, Beca thinks, the word flashing in her mind one second, disappearing the next. That is what being_ free _looks like._

_She comes to a stop, giving time for Beca to catch up with her, and shoots the brunette a smile with bright eyes beaming enthusiasm. “Thank you for coming with me. You’re going to love Kasey Musgraves! She’s a lyrical genius.” Chloe bobs her head once, confirmative and assertive, wiggling her eyebrows up and down._

_“Is she?” Beca sticks a spoonful of her snow cone into her mouth, more interested in her treat than in whoever it is Chloe is describing. “Is she really?” She scoops some more ice from her cup, but before she can deposit it in her open mouth, Chloe grasps her wrist and uses it to lead the spoon towards her own. Beca stares at her lips as she smiles over the spoon and pulls it out. Chloe’s eyes widen in surprise as the sweetness drowns her taste buds, obviously not anticipating it to be so tasty._

_“She is. Getting a snow cone was_ totes _a great idea.” She licks her lips before wiping them with the back of her hand. “Let’s go back. I want to try the pineapple one!”_

=====================================

 

She couldn’t believe it. Her. Beca Mitchell. Going to see Calvin Harris. At a _rave_. Beca had never been to a rave before – none of Amy’s stories had led her to believe it was an event she’d _want_ to attend, either. She didn’t feel like her avoidance was uncalled for, either; Amy’s stories _did_ always begin with an abundance of alcohol and end with a muscular man in a strange bed. Not Beca’s cup of tea. Was it _really_ a rave though? She still wasn’t sure if she was accurately labelling it or not. All she knew was that Calvin Harris _had_ in fact tweeted about a “low-key event” he would be spinning at that night, much like Amy promised.

 

After that, she’d come to the conclusion that whether it be Calvin Harris or some amateur wannabe DJ, it would be healthy to get out of the house and getting her mind off of Chloe.

 

In addition to being a total newbie at the whole dancing-and-singing-with-a-bunch-of-sweaty-strangers thing, she felt ridiculous for listening to Amy’s clothing recommendations (demands), and most definitely did not feel like typical Beca Mitchell. It wasn’t like she was dressed _too_ out of the ordinary, but the look her father gave her before she left spoke volumes (God forbid she wear something besides black jeans and converse). She’d chosen to wear her red and black plaid shirt, unbuttoned over a low white tank top, accompanied by a pair of faded jean shorts and black ankle boots. She’d found the latter two at Urban Outfitters per Amy’s recommendation (demand). For her own sake, she inquired a bubbly sales associate for help, but belived she’d shot herself in the foot as the girl began following on her heels and repeatedly told her how much fun she was going to have in between chomping her gum and blowing globular pink bubbles. She instructed to ‘totally wear as little as possible, because _you know_ ,’ to which Beca assured her, she in fact did _not_ know.

 

When she arrived at Amy’s house, where she and the others – Jessica, Lilly, and Stacie, who Beca could actually tolerate – had agreed to meet, the exclamations of approval over her outfit and excited suggestions that it would be the best night of her life made her feel slightly better. They all dressed sparingly and were dolled up excellently, eyeliner used to make attractive swirls and designs on their faces. (Beca didn’t know _why_ they had designs on their faces, but it did look pretty neat.)

 

Stacie did, however, a few minutes after her arrival, place both hands on Beca’s shoulders with a pouty lip, “Sweetie, we’re going to a rave, not grocery shopping. Let’s at a little _oomph_ to your makeup.” She dragged Beca to sit on Amy’s kitchen counter and unzipped her floral makeup bag. Stacie murmurs compliments to her own cosmetic prowess as she pokes and prods Beca’s face with her brushes. She finishes quickly, leaving Beca with a complimentary grey and indigo smoky eye, silver sparkling near the inner corners of her eyes. As a finishing touch, three petite, symmetrical circles were drawn along the edges of Beca’s cheekbones with black eyeliner.

 

“Whoa,” Amy exclaims once she lays her eyes on Beca, her hands shooting out in mock defense, “Who are you and what have you done with alternative Beca?” It brings an immediate smile to her face, making her feel like maybe she won’t look like a _total_ outsider tonight.

 

She doesn’t _feel_ like typical Beca anymore; typical Beca doesn’t know how to be friendly with groups of people, like she was being now. Typical Beca doesn’t ever get this restless, eager feeling, making her excited like she currently was – she just didn’t _get_ excited. Until tonight, she always analogized that the system in her meant to invoke certain emotions had a short in its circuit.

 

That being said, who really was ‘typical’ Beca Mitchell? A sad, desperate teenager who moped from home to the record store on a frequent basis, craving personal interaction? She wasn’t fond of that girl any longer. Maybe it was a good thing she didn’t feel like the old Beca Mitchell.

 

Stacie cheers, clapping her hands together, “We’re gonna have some fun tonight, ladies! Let’s do this!”

 

If only they knew.

 

=======================================

 

The girls saunter up to the entrance of the club, the cool night air mixing with the small amount of liquor Beca had consumed at Amy’s to relax her further. She wasn’t a drinker – really, she wasn’t – but peer pressure was a real bitch. And so was Amy’s ability to sway her, and apparently the other girls as well, seeing as they all supported her idea to “use some spirits to lift the spirits, if you catch my drift.” Stacie flirted her very best to convince the bouncer they were 21 while Amy handed over the tickets. Said bouncer’s unamused expression said loud and clear that this was a nightly occurrence, and no, they were most definitely not 21, “now show me your ID.”

 

They all ended up with extra-large, permanent black X’s on their hands.

 

The venue was expansive and, to be expected, incredibly dark. Per Amy’s description, the only lights came from various sources of neon around the room and dim illuminations from the legs of the unoccupied DJ stand, which stood atop of what appeared to be a metal construction platform welded to the ground, stretching halfway up between the floor and the ceiling.

 

Groups of people were clustered all around, unpleasantly reminding Beca of high school cliques. Some men wore plain white T-shirts or tanks with splatters of bright paint and cargo shorts, others wore no shirt at all and had their bare chests decorated with handprints, words, and symbols. The women were dressed diversely. Beca could spot short shorts, crop tops, torn t-shirts, halter tops, and more, also splattered with neon paint. Wrists were adorned with bracelets and bands and eyes were shaded by sunglasses, which Beca found somewhat pretentious, because it was _already_ dark in the room, but whatever.

 

“Ugh!” Beca sputters, her face having just been attacked by some wet, unknown substance that smells like her tenth grade art class. Her hand wipes against her right jaw, and she’s not all that surprised to see it come back with bright pink paint. Of course the girls had found the source of the neon paint covering the other guests. Stacie, caught pink-handed by Beca’s investigative gaze, sticks her tongue out at Beca before being ambushed by Jessica, who barrels passed while launching green from both hands.

 

Beca bounds over to the table where numerous bowls of paint sit, and dips her hands in the blue and yellow goop to join the fight. Her face begins to ache from being stretched into such a wide grin for so long, and she’s really hoping she doesn’t end up with a mouthful of paint. Soon, even unfamiliar people have joined in on their paint war, drawing a shout-out from the opening DJ who had begun spinning some half-decent remixes. It’s a challenge for Beca not to snap her neck to follow every head of red she sees; _not_ a problem, just a challenge. At one point, Stacie sneaks up behind her to place firm handprints on the seat of her shorts, drawing a yelp from Beca.

 

“Dude!” She squeals over the drop of the song.

 

The taller brunette giggles, blue paint on her face cracking along the crease of her grin. “It’s just me, Beca! Let loose a little! Tonight is for _fun_ , remember?” (Although Beca doesn’t really know how having her ass grabbed by someone she can’t see qualifies as ‘fun’). “Look, if someone does something you don’t like, just walk away. Things like that happen a lot at these kinds of things.” She shrugs nonchalantly with a carefree – and oddly reassuring – smirk, as though Beca should have already known…which, she guesses she should have. “Just find someone cute to dance behind you and protect you,” she adds playfully with a wink, “Speaking of which, we’re definitely going to dance together tonight. Just so you know.”

 

It doesn’t sound like a horrible idea, Beca thinks. “I can live with that,” She replies, taken aback by the borderline flirtatious tone in her own voice. She is not sure if she meant it to come out that way, or if it’s the influence of the alcohol still buzzing through her. Stacie is right, though: she deserves to have fun tonight. So what if she flirts with other pretty people? She’s _allowed_.

 

Maybe, if she allows herself to unravel a little more, she could learn what it’s like to be as free as Chloe.

 

Everyone seems to be splattered in different colors of paint, Beca herself sporting handprints on her ass and streaks on her arms, oranges and reds and blues polka-dotting her tank top. She follows her friends to the dance floor once the DJ – Beca never got the dude’s name, but she can admit that he wasn’t half-bad – departs from the podium. Jessica tosses her a water bottle, and she down all of it after thanking the blonde. She was having such a great time, she didn’t realize how dry her mouth had gotten. The cold water flushes down Beca’s body, seeming to awaken her and snap her out of her haze, sending a completely new vibe throughout her body. Navy eyes snap open to appreciatively take in the people around her, sweaty and happy _and free_ , and she _finally_ feels like she is at the right place at the right time.

 

The best part? She left any burdening, unpleasant thought of Chloe locked away in a dusty cell in the corner of her mind.

 

People in the room congregate towards the floor and explode into deafening cheers when Calvin Harris comes from behind the curtains that flutter as a backdrop behind the turntables. He struts up to the black table, towering over the crowd, and raises both his arms in a greeting to the club. It’s passionately reciprocated, and his set starts without another word, the beginning to “Outside” thrumming throughout the room.

 

And once again, Beca had never been to anything like this, so she had pretty much no idea what to do. Nonetheless, the music, not caring if she knows how to conduct herself or not, begins to echo its way through her body and invade her thoughts. Any hint of resistance is thrown in the trash as Stacie grabs her hand and pulls her deeper into the crowd with an excited expression thrown over her shoulder. Beca is bombarded with the delighted vibe Stacie is emanating, passing it on to her like a gene she can’t deny not return, such as eye color or curly hair. Stacie was going to make sure she got lost in the night, even if Beca politely declined. Which, for the record, would not happen at this point. Beca had trekked too far into the woods to find her way back.

 

Not like she _wanted_ to go back, anyway.

 

The next thirty minutes are full of jumping and pumping of fists, and everything Beca had once made fun of she was now taking part in. She danced with Stacie for the introductory songs, the taller girl moving gracefully behind her, her hand shamelessly gripping Beca’s side, occasionally spinning her around to ask if she was having fun. Every time all Beca could manage in return was a dazed grin and a nod of her head, because Stacie was _right_ there, and she knew _exactly_ what to do with her body. Beca had to face it, her brain was mush and the hormones in the air had begun to smudge the borders between ‘ _What_ am I doing?’ and ‘Hell yeah, I’m doing this!’

 

Eventually, halfway through “Thinking About You,” they had agreed to be adventurous and find new dance partners, so Beca swerved her way between dancers, getting a smidge closer to the DJ stand, where she stopped in front of a boyishly cute guy who swayed behind her and respectfully kept his hands to himself for a while. Without Stacie’s constant physical invasion, Beca retrieved a sliver of her brainpower back to think: _she was dancing_. What the hell? Beca Mitchell, self-acclaimed carrier of CRD (Caucasian Rhythm Disorder, as her mother had told her to make her feel better upon returning from a school dance in seventh grade with scraped knees and an ice pack held to her head, after completely embarrassed herself in front of her entire grade), was dancing. And having _fun_. She could count on one hand how many times this had occurred.

 

_Chloe’s hair flew around crazily, as though she were in the center of a hurricane. Only, she wasn’t. She was in the middle of Beca’s bedroom – dancing._

_“I thought I said there would be no dancing in my room, Beale.” Seated in her desk chair, she kicked off the leg of the desk to swivel around and address said redhead._

_The girl didn’t stop, her hands continued to pump to and fro and her thighs worked overtime to move her around the room. “You can’t stop me!” Came a breathless, sing-song reply. Which was not entirely true, if Beca really wanted, she could easily make the girl stop. But making her stop would make her less happy – and less happy Chloe was, obviously, not as enjoyable. And if she were being honest, she really didn’t care. Simply pressing the redhead’s buttons._

_“I’m just young and sweet, Beca!”_

_“Don’t.”_

_“Only seventeen!”_

_“You are_ not _seventeen.”_

_Chloe stops, the previously airborne foot falling to the carpet and her arms crossing over her chest. “Can’t you just let me be the dancing queen like, one time?”_

_Beca snorts, “No. I can’t. Sorry.” Chloe purses her lips and raises one eyebrow challengingly. It was her very effective ‘mom look,’ capable of striking fear into Beca eighty percent of the time. Luckily, this instance leaned to the other twenty percent._

_“Chloe, it’s for your own good!” The brunette declares plainly with a shrug and folds her legs in front of her on the chair, wrapping her arms around them._

_Beca didn’t dance,_ ever _; Chloe knew that. Beca’s complete lack of admiration for the art saddened her, because she thought it was a harmless, fun way to pass the time and loved it almost as much as she did singing. To her, it could convey so many feelings, just like singing could. Long, graceful arcs, or short and quick pirouettes. Combine them, and you get an intricate story only few are willing to decode._

_Her scowl is replaced with a conniving upturn of the left corner of her mouth. She cocks one hip out to rest her weight on it, filled to the brim with attitude. “I bet you can dance, Beca.”_

_“Nope.” Beca eyes the redhead warily as she slowly approaches, a lioness hunting a clueless zebra._

_“I bet you can jive!” The lioness pounces, pulling Beca to her feet with a high pitched objection, but it’s overpowered by loud, harmonious singing of “Dancing Queen.”_

_Maybe Beca laughed, and maybe she danced. But if anyone were to ask, she would plead the fifth._

 

The sudden onslaught of memories has her squeezing her eyes shut and shaking her head at herself for allowing her current state to be breached. Before the lyrics, “ _everything I do, it’s all for loving you,_ ” could revive another bitter memory of Chloe, she turns around and asks the stranger to dance with her. It works much better than she thought it would, her mind zeroing in on the hands gently gripping her hipbones and making sure she’s singing the right lyrics. He leans down to speak into her ear, telling her his name is Jesse.

 

The bass is beginning to make Beca’s head pound and her body vibrates with the sound waves bouncing through the air. She moves together with Jesse on the dance floor for a few songs before she actually grows _bored_. She wants to be closer the source of the magic coursing through her until she goes numb. Turning around awkwardly in the cramped space, she raises herself on her tiptoes to thank Jesse for dancing with her, pressing an innocent kiss to his sweaty cheek before turning around and pushing her way once again deeper into the swarm of people. He calls out that he hopes to see her again, but for sake of his future well-being, she decides to ignore the wish. She passes couples who are grinding heavily and kissing quite grossly, and she wonders if she and Jesse would have ended up like that had she stayed. She can’t really bring herself to care or judge, though. She’d come to think of the night and venue as a judgement free zone.

 

She could not have chosen a more perfect moment to come to that exact conclusion, because the second she scans the crowd, she knows her night is going to end chock-full of self-criticism. From this point on, she mentally vows no responsibility for her actions.

 

Her eyes land on a Goddess, of-fucking-course, her body rocking along to the beat of “Sweet Nothing,” one hand held high above her head with orange handprints along her arm, the other hand pushing shiny red locks away from her face. Beca can’t see it from where she’s standing, but she’s sure her crystal eyes are hidden behind closed lids, she’s sure her cheeks are flushed and that there’s a line of perspiration lining on her forehead, and she’s _positive_ that her colored lips are moving along to sing every word.

 

So many questions pop into Beca’s mind: why is she here? How did she know about it? Does she know Beca’s here? Is she here _because_ of Beca, because she knows how much Beca loves Calvin Harris?

 

Beca thinks maybe she should be confused, or angry at Chloe for ruining her one Chloe-free night, or at least feel anything _other_ than what she is feeling right now. She should want to proceed to the opposite end of the dance floor and find someone new and unknown to grind against, or _anything_ else, she should not be moving _towards_ Chloe right now.

 

Before she can register what she’s doing, she’s shoved her way closer and her hand is reaching out. Desperate for her fingertips to reach Chloe’s lateral side, to make sure she knows she’s there, make sure she knows Beca sees her. That moment, when Beca’s eyes are glued to the shine on the redhead’s temple and her hand is suspended in the air between them, Chloe decides to pry her eyes open and angle her head in Beca’s direction by chance, locking their gazes together.

 

Moments like these, she understands what Chloe meant when she said life was like a novel or movie. Or, maybe Beca is completely right and the Universe really _does_ hate her.

 

A lively, glinting expression invades her face instead of the grimace Beca was expecting, her mouth pursing together into a daring smile. She raises her own hand towards the brunette, holding her palm upwards. A simple motion, Beca knows, but the unspoken request – command, really – has their hands gravitating together like north and a south poles of opposite magnetic domains. Their hands weave together and Chloe pulls her forcefully through those still separating them. Beca finds herself flush against the redhead, her hands holding on for dear life to the other girl’s arms, scraping against the painted handprints she so dearly wishes she’d placed there. Whoever _did_ put them there, Beca thinks, can go screw themselves.

 

Chloe slides her hands beneath Beca’s plaid, running over the sides of her tank top to press into the lower muscles of her back. People’s arms and butts and hips are bumping against them, but Beca’s attention span is taken up entirely by the redhead in front of her. She was wearing one of her flowy hi-low shirts, cropped so that it barely rose above the hem of her black shorts. Beca couldn’t see her shoes, but that was literally _so_ irrelevant she couldn’t believe she had even thought about it. Her eyes rake up from Chloe’s shirt – she _tried_ really hard not to glimpse at her cleavage, she _really_ did, but she is only human – to her eyes, the darkness of them eased by brighter starry specks, set alight from the flashing of neon lights.

 

Ha. And Beca thought her brain was mush _before_.

 

“Dance with me?” She asks, though they both know it’s not a question requiring much debate. A dopey grin is all that Chloe needs from Beca, accepting it as a sufficient answer and proceeding to slide behind Beca. She feels Chloe’s dainty hands trickle down her sides. Her hands feel so much better than Jesse’s, and her voice sounds so much sweeter as it travels to her ears as she asks, “Is this okay?” And of course it is, Beca wants to say, why _wouldn’t_ it be? But she knows exactly why. Instead of speaking, she grabs the unsure hands and presses them more firmly into her hips, squeezing them there in hope they stay.

 

The two dance together for a while, the time spent somehow seeming too short and too long at the same time. Beca is hyperaware of every push and pull, roll and graze, making the dance seem eternal because she just _has_ to analyze each movement. But once Chloe’s body begins to back off, the feeling of disappointment that makes her limbs feel like lead is akin to the one she gets when her eight-hour night’s sleep ends up feeling like thirty minutes instead.

 

“Beca,” Chloe starts, moving to the side and willing Beca to do the same with a tug on her wrist. She steps closer to the brunette, their waists knocking together like matching puzzle pieces. “I…” Her eyes flicker to Beca’s lips, to the dots along her cheek bones, to her multicolored chest, then back to her eyes, over and over again, a never-ending cycle. “Live with me tonight.” She continues, and she is getting so close, so _damn_ close, Beca knows if she tips her chin forward they could be reliving their moment in the bookstore. “Can you do that? Can you let go and just _live_?”

 

She can’t breathe. Beca swears it sounds so rehearsed and fake, because she doesn’t know anyone else in the world who would straight up _say_ something like that. She’s not even that sure she understands what Chloe is asking of her. That is exactly _it_ , though, exactly what makes Chloe _Chloe_. Part of why Beca is so drawn to her: she has a way of shrouding any situation in a mystifying, surreal mist, making each and every moment special in some way, whether it be absurd, amicable or alluring. Even this moment, as they’re coated in sweat and surrounded by equally as sweaty, gyrating bodies, will be remembered as intimate and cinematic.

 

Beca inhales peacefully despite the lack of oxygen in the vicinity, and nods her head cautiously. Yes. She can live. If this is was ‘living’ was supposed to be, then _yes_. Chloe, breathing heavily from dancing, presses her lips together as she nods with Beca, then mouths an ‘okay.’

 

 

She lowers her head the remainder of the way and presses her lips to Beca’s. She can feel Chloe’s lips buzzing against her own – actually buzzing, the bass is _seriously_ killer. Beca tears the tips of her fingers away from the mysterious handprints and trails them up to cradle Chloe’s face, sliding her thumb across her slippery face with each break of a kiss. Every time they break, one of them is right there, pushing back, not willing to stop this for anything. She doesn’t know how Chloe can do this. _Why_ she is doing this. Beca doesn’t _deserve_ this, for one of her longest wishes to be granted; but then there’s that desperate part of her rearing its ugly head again, claiming that maybe _Chloe_ deserves this. She can’t tell if she truly believes that, or if she’s forcing herself to so that she doesn’t drown in guilt.

 

Chloe’s hands glide beneath Beca’s tank top, pulling her out of her thoughts. They’re not cold, like Beca’s own. They’re warm and mold against her entire back and stomach like magma. So much warmth is traveling to her from Chloe, from her hands and her mouth and her torso, and the brunette feels like she could combust any second. She almost wants to laugh at the thought of Chloe melting her frozen heart, but her mouth is kind of occupied, and she doesn’t really have much breath to spare. She thinks the song has changed – no, she’s pretty sure she hears the lyrics to “Pray to God” now booming from the speakers.

 

 _I pray to God, I just don’t know anymore_. How fitting.

 

If there are any sighs or moans, neither of them can hear nor even feel them, there’s too much outside interference, and something about that is just _not_ okay.

 

Beca’s stomach flutters as Chloe pulls away with a prolonged tug at her bottom lip. An offhanded thought that these other people should _not_ be witnessing their intimate moment sprints through her mind before she realizes that, most likely, no one’s even paying attention to them. They’re just another pair in the crowd.

 

The redhead releases Beca’s lip and separates enough to look at her comfortably, watching as she runs her tongue once over her stinging skin. There’s a very slight reluctance in the way she opens her mouth and closes it a few times, Beca notices, and her brow barely furrows inward in contemplation.

 

“Do you…”

 

She stops herself, a resolve coming across her face. Her mouth opens again, but Beca doesn’t really need to hear the question to know what she’s asking. The fingers pressing against her spine and the dark waves coursing through Chloe’s typically unclouded eyes are enough to make the brunette’s own navy blues beam through the dwindling confusion weighing her down. The overwhelming attraction she’s showing towards Chloe and that Chloe is so openly showing towards her knocks off any perplexity, making her feel like she’s floating on a cloud. Chloe’s confidence returns and any hint of timidity vanishes; of course, she’s always been able to read the brunette like the back of her hand.

 

Beca tries desperately to keep her mindset focused on the present as Chloe leads them out of the mass of dancers and towards the door, her thumb caressing Beca’s wrist – her newest habit, it seems. They exit the venue with a polite nod to the teenager-despising bouncer. The loudness of the music spawned an annoying headache and a muffled ringing in her ears. She knows now isn’t the time to ask the redhead about Berkley, or Tom. Despite being aware of that, she’s ready to blurt it out any second until Chloe pushes her against the passenger side of her silver Jetta with a single fervent kiss, a hand urgently pushing into brown hair. She smiles admiringly back at the redhead as she skates to the driver side, regardless of the thoughts and morals clashing in her head.

 

_I give in._

 

It was a classic tale of man-versus-self and man-versus-man. What was she doing to herself? What was she doing to _Chloe_? Until now, she hadn’t stopped to wonder: what the _fuck_ was Chloe doing to _her_?

 

_I give in to you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts are incredibly appreciated! Kind of a cliff hanger, but it leaves it open for more chapters, depending on the response I get. Also, I purposely used Calvin Harris instead of David Guetta, simply because I could connect to the songs better. Hope it was worth the read, thank you so much for your support :) it seriously makes my day to see when people enjoy it! Have a nice day/night!
> 
> Songs: Before He Cheats by Carrie Underwood is referenced. Outside by Calvin Harris ft. Ellie Goulding. Dancing Queen by Abba. Thinking About You by Calvin Harris ft. Ayah Marar. Pray to God by Calvin Harris ft. HAIM.


	5. You're It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, everyone. Angst and language warning. Also, implied mature themes.

Beca never thought she would find herself in this particular situation. It seemed, once again, like a scene in a movie. Beca was tired of living shitty movie scenes.

 

“This situation” being walking home at four in the morning in the same clothes as the night before, with a sore throat and stinging shoulder blades and a punctured heart. She couldn't tell at this point if it was the darkness that was suffocating her, or the weight of what had conspired, wrapping her chest in thorny vines that tighten every time she inhales. Her feet scuff against the cement sidewalk. A shiver quakes through her body, despite the air being thick and stuffy with warmth. The flush and remembrance of touches flaring occasionally on her frame does nothing to stop the occasional chill either, which only makes Beca want to scream into the night even more.

 

_“What if someone-”_

_“They won't.”_

_“Chloe, how can you-”_

_“Beca.” The redhead's hand reaches out to barely graze Beca’s cheek. She smiles. “They’re out of town. Trust me with this, okay? If you want me to take you home, you need to tell me.”_

_They both know there's nothing to tell at this point. In a flash Beca frees herself with a releasing click of her seatbelt and heaves herself up to lean over the middle console and presses a kiss to the redhead’s lips. Once they break, she nods her chin towards the house they are parked in front of, Chloe's house, and reaches to undo the girl’s seatbelt for her._

 

Every five seconds, a new scene pushes its way to the forefront of Beca's mind. It’s maddening. Each memory is fresh and embellished with the physical proof of their intertwining love - _did she really just call it intertwining love? Geez_.

 

She finds herself in a daze, involuntarily blocking out the real world.

 

_“Bec,” Chloe breathes out, giggling beneath the peppering of Beca’s kisses at her cheek and gasping as they turn wet at messy at her neck. She somehow finds the sliver of focus it takes to slide a hand up the brunette’s side, hooking her tank top with her thumb. Beca pulls back with a drag of her lips, reminiscent of Chloe’s kiss on her cheek weeks back. Her hands aid Chloe’s in lifting the top as she rises and tosses it to the floor to join the plaid on the floor. She finds herself sitting tall atop Chloe’s lap, suddenly feeling diffident about the paleness of her stomach and the light birthmark painted on her right side._

_Chloe’s facial features retain a certain softness, emanating appreciation and adoration aplenty. “Hi,” she whispers absently, her attention divided amongst lips and fingertips and glimpses of bare skin. “You’re...God, you’re so pretty.” Her hand lifts up, her thumb gliding gently along Beca’s bottom lip. Her aqua eyes roam the brunette's face as she follows suit and raises herself with her free hand._

_Breathing out as easily as she can manage, considering the circumstances, glides her hands up the redhead’s torso and buries her hands in her hair. A long moment is spent with the two allowing their thoughts to mingle and clear everything else out, until the only remaining thought in either of their minds is of one another. The brunette’s lips molding against Chloe’s do wonders in keeping her grounded and send a pleasant hum throughout her body, similar to the vibrating caused by the bass at the Calvin Harris show. This time, Chloe was the instrument, and Beca was the artist._

 

Beca’s head jerks up and her body forces her to take in a much needed breath. She’s not all that shocked to see that she’s passed her house by a number of yards and is greeted by an old, familiar friend. Though, she’s not so sure she would label it a ‘friend’ anymore. That heap of green-painted metal, still standing after the best and worst years of Beca and Chloe's relationship. Without arousing any suspicion, those swings had carried them weightlessly into each other's souls, like a thief in the night, sent to steal and deliver precious goods.

 

The hate for the structure easily dwindles, of course, because she can still hear the desperate _“Bec,”_ being groaned out, and she can still feel the nimble, manicured hands tangling in her hair while it’s stationed between thighs. The shiver wracking through her body at the thought makes her clutch her plaid closer to her body.

 

_Chloe had stopped heaving a while ago now, and the rise and fall of her chest fell into an even sequence. She stares up at the popcorned ceiling, one hand resting on her abdomen and the other tracing circles and figure-eights over the top of Beca’s hand._

_It was easy for Beca to fall into a trance; resting her head in one hand, propped up via her elbow digging into the mattress. She was content to study the constellations of red and purple marks designing Chloe’s collarbone and the swell of her breasts. She would have felt a little guiltier, or asked if Chloe would be able to keep them all covered, but her own torso was nearly identical. Quid pro quo, right?_

_Soon, Chloe wills her tired body to shift onto her side to face the observing brunette. Her restless fingers find peace at that same spot on the underside of Beca’s wrist where her pulse beats like a tribal drum. There’s a sweetness and a gratitude to the tender curvature of her lips, but the wavering of her eyes serve to reveal a worrisome crack in her armor, a flaw in her systematic defense._

_Beca knows why. She knows the trail the redhead’s mind is following well, for her own thoughts had spent the past twenty minutes not only admiring the redhead, but also exploring those contradictory trails of feeling the utmost, soul-crushing level of regret, versus feeling light and unchained and not even remembering the definition of ‘regret.’ It is a dreadful fork in their road, one that has them retracing their steps and testing each path, right and left, over and over, taking a few indecisive steps down one path before backtracking and meandering down the one other, just in case they missed a clue. Like a footprint, or a broken branch. An inner battle of allowing the elation of now to overcome, or giving in to the panging withdrawal that is sure to come eventually._

_The two are seeing both sides of the spectrum and are tortured by the indecision that comes with the split. Still, Chloe’s oceanic eyes peer at her with a single predominant thought, drowning amongst all the rest, screaming out to her for a lifejacket._

_What had they done?_

 

…

 

Beca wakes with a ringing in her ears and a pain sneaking through the occipital region of her cranium. In the seventh grade, a classmate had told her that when your ears ring, it means someone is talking about you, and to make them stop, you’re supposed to bite your tongue. Accordingly, it is meant to make the gossiper bite their own tongue mid-gossip. Ever since, when her ears ring, she habitually chomps down on her tongue with an excessive amount of spite. Like, _yeah, that’s what you get for being a gossipy bitch_! Although, deep down, she knows she’s really only hurting herself.

 

Still, karma is still reassuring, even if is preconceived.

 

That is, of course, unless you are on the deserving end of said karma. She comes to realize this on a clearer, more thorough level as she lays in her bed, squinting against the afternoon light shining in through her sucky shades and tearing up at the pain caused from a vicious bite of her own tongue. The number of things she has done, the angst she has caused, all of it is simply adding up. A tally mark for each douchey thing she’s said, thought, done, and has not done. Soon, whatever being it is that is judging her for her indecencies is going to trade in all those marks for one giant heaping of karma that will barrel towards her from a faraway nebula and crash into her, as detrimental to her as the asteroid was to the dinosaurs.

 

Beca manages herself off the bed and to her feet, which she now notices also ache from being on them all night. After a pat on the back for having actually taken her shorts and shoes off before falling asleep, she shuffles her way over to where they sit arbitrarily on the floor. It’s an image that rings bells of the previous night; the pair looked much neater on Chloe’s plush beige carpet. But she shouldn’t be complaining; she was the one to displace them. They would still be laying there in this exact moment had she not snuck out of Chloe’s arms, bed, room, and house hours ago.

 

At the thought of time, she carefully walks over to her bedside table and presses the home screen on her phone. **3:42**. Underneath the time are a number of text messages:

 

**From Dad: Be safe tonight, kiddo. Love you.**

**From Amy: I may or may not have seen you leave with the ginger**

**From Amy: It looked like you, but it also could have been Kristen Stewart. You never know**

**From Amy: Please use protection**

**From Amy: I’m not a good babysitter**

 

Following, of course, are three missed calls from her shift manager. She was scheduled to work at three and had full intentions of going, but that obviously hadn't transpired as well as she'd hoped. It was her own fault; she forgot to set an alarm.

 

Her fault. All of it. The notion repeats in her mind, echoing as it would in a nightmare, and her eyes begin to blur over with the sign of oncoming tears.

 

Her fault.

 

Something inside snaps and her breath catches deep within her lungs, her previously stable setting hacked and corrupted. She can barely see straight as she kicks viciously at the discarded clothes and shoes on the floor with a growl. It’s pure luck that her foot makes contact as it swings up. She’s oblivious to the racket they make while rocketing into her closet door. Her hands rise to swipe her hair out of her face and tug against her scalp.

 

She’s not going to cry. She is not going to cry. She can deal with this without the waterworks. She always has. At this point, it’s easy. Well-rehearsed. Dramatics have never really been her thing (like that’s fact that needs to be rehashed), and crying has always made her feel silly, and weak. She does find it odd, though; how she can never stand herself when that upheave of air comes, followed with the tickling buildup of tears along her waterline, but when tears dare to tease Chloe’s cheeks, she’s overwhelmed with an urge to...care. To soothe, to ease, to save. She almost cares (or rather, cared?) too much, and she selfishly fell into a rut: how was she supposed to propel herself and Chloe at once, when she could barely keep one of them afloat at any given moment? And thus, this is her way of keeping her head perpetually above water. All it takes is a few familiar, whispered, not-so-reassuring chants of “Don’t be a fucking baby, Beca,” and she’s peachy.

 

She takes a few deep breaths and soon the burn in her eyes fades away, leaving a heaviness in its wake. She’s graduated now; a damn adult. It’s time to move on, and she knows it, but on the same token, she can’t just leave Chloe to ponder the how’s and the why’s. Well, she could, but then it would haunt her the rest of her life. She knows she only has a few days to build up the confidence to speak to her before the redhead leaves for Berklee, and that exact thought is what forces her to lift her head and hurry into a shower to let the steaming water wash away an ounce of stress and loosen a few knots in her shoulders and neck. She refuses to look at her body in fear of seeing the spotty purple marks decorating her body. Finally able to take in a full breath, one that expands her chest and results in a satisfying exhale, she pulls on some light jeans with tears on the knees and thighs and a black and red striped long sleeve shirt.

 

Her dark hair curls softly as it air dries, the shorter hairs twirling up to tickle her cheeks. Upon looking in the mirror, she’s greeted by a pale image of herself - really, what else was she expecting? - only the image is marred by dark slumps beneath her eyes and the seemingly perpetual crease between her brows. She appears worn down, coerced through the wringer, but her eyes carry a steepness to them, one she’s never seen before. Blues and greys that hold understanding and realizations, left behind by the crashing of cerulean waves.

 

Her phone reads **6:15** , and she’s no idea where the time has gone, but she knows it’s time to do something - anything. She inhales deeply and rakes her hands through tangles once more before blowing the air back out through pursed lips.

 

Her heart beat drowns out the sound of her footsteps and the door slamming behind her.

 

...

 

The swing's whine, however, is louder than the pounding in her ears, and each accompanying creak from the metal forces Beca's heart to swell and splinter more and more. The body swinging forcefully on the large set doesn’t falter when Beca emerges. The few seconds it takes for Beca to cross the street give her enough time to loathe nearly every decision she’s made in her entire Chloe-filled life; specifically the ones made in the past week. She feels utterly ridiculous for doing this. It’s cruel either way, really, to the both of them, if she speaks to Chloe or not, because either way is bound to result in heartache.

 

Grass tickles her bare feet and her still-damp hair frizzes in the humid air, and she’s finally close enough to confirm that the shine on Chloe's cheeks does indeed stem from tears trailing down her face. Chloe's foot viciously rakes against the earth to bring her momentum to a stop. Her hands grip the chains and her eyes bore holes into Beca as she approaches.

 

"You know, you've got a funny way of hanging around."

 

Beca steels herself, trying desperately to not physically cringe at Chloe's harsh tone. Her voice, typically sweet and bubbly, cracked and was laced with a paralyzing poison.

 

"You're leaving soon." Beca chokes out. She wishes she could be stronger, fiercer, but her own voice is quiet and lacking.  "To, uh...to school. College."

 

A bitter laugh spews from Chloe, as though she finds it just as pathetic as Beca does that that was the only thing the brunette could say. "Yeah, Beca. I'm leaving." A shaky hand shoots up to wipe at her wet cheek. “Tonight, actually, in case you were wondering.”

 

That was too soon. Chloe was supposed to stay until Tuesday.

 

“Tonight?” Beca gasps, “But...I thought...but it’s only Sunday…” She trails off and tugs on the holes of her sleeves, tensing her shoulders to make them lift. It wasn’t cold; the shiver quaking through her body was not due to the temperature.

 

Chloe’s still wears that spiteful smile, her nostrils somewhat flared in anger. “Yeah, plans changed. Funny how things work, huh?” She nods sharply and Beca hears the message plain and clear: if anyone, she would be the one to know about sudden changes.

 

Even with Chloe glaring at her with those dangerous eyes and wild red hair, Beca’s heart swells for her. Chloe is doing what every teenager from a small town dreams of doing: finally escaping. Still, to hear it stated out loud is a lot different than simply thinking it. Beca's bones feel like lead. She’s surprised she’s able to keep her own weight up. "Why didn't you tell me you got into Berkeley?” She drops her gaze and nonchalantly cocks her hip to one side to hold her up.

 

The girl's lips pale from pressure they are pressing into one another with. Her response comes like the cracking of a whip. “That's real funny, Beca. That you think I owe you any sort of explanation at all.”

 

“Chloe, I'm just trying to-”

 

Those seem to be the magic words. A final, fierce wave of teal flashes in her eyes and she is gracefully coming off the swing, tears flowing from her eyes. Beca feels that unabashed rush of care, and she wants to push it down, wants to forget it exists, but how can she when the epitome of care and love and emotion is barreling towards her?

 

“Trying to what? You’ve tossed me aside like I’m _trash_ , Beca. You _left_ me to wake up _alone_ this morning. What even _was_ last night to you? Some easy hookup?” Beca can feel the air being trapped in her lungs once again, and she knows if she sees Chloe’s face, that will be it for her. The brick walls she’s meticulously built and reinforced with steel beams around her soul will be melting and crashing down around her. She doesn't have much of a choice though. “Jesus, will you at least fucking look at me?”

 

So, she drags her watery eyes up from the ground and chews on the inside corners of her mouth. Chloe stares back at her expectantly and her arms cross at her chest. _Oh, Chloe_ , Beca thinks, _that’s not going to protect you_. Beca has so much to say, and is ready to spill everything when Chloe’s patience runs out.

 

"I know you care." Each word is spoken - no, breathed - deliberately, and Chloe takes daring steps closer to Beca with a growing intensity in her expression. The stars in her eyes had imploded and been replaced by gaping black holes, sucking Beca further into oblivion the longer she stares. Her hair tumbles around her shoulders like a mane of fire. And she’s right.

 

“I do.” Beca starts. “I do care.” It’s always easier to go on once you start, her father always told her, and she knows it’s true. Her voice gains volume with each syllable until she’s speaking clearly. “I care for you, _so_ much, and I always have. I _always_ have, Chloe! Don’t you get it?” She huffs through her nose, a small, barely there laugh. “You are the most wonderful person I have ever met,”

 

Chloe tries to interject, “That has not-”

 

“And that might not mean anything to you, Chloe, but to me, you were like an angel, and I placed you on a pedestal that I never thought I’d reach. And somehow, you pulled me up there with you. But I’m not like you Chloe! I’m not an angel, I’m not kind, I’m not as bright as you, and I’m _definitely_ not as auspicious as you. You’re going places in life.” Her hands rise off her side for emphasis, “You’re getting out of here! You are going to _Berklee_!”

 

“Beca, stop it,” She shakes her head, her frown never faltering, “What does this have to do with anything?”

 

“Give me a second!” She pleads, “I’m not going anywhere. I lacked the drive you had, and I could never get that perfect, shining image that you always had without even trying. I knew that this is exactly what was going to happen – and I didn’t want things to come to this exact situation. If I never left you back then, I would have just been a hurdle for you to jump over and leave behind. I figured it would be easier on the both of us if I did it sooner rather than later.” Beca’s second of rambling passion blows away with the wind, and her voice returns to its earlier quietness. “People like you don’t belong around people like me.”

 

Beca really begins to think Chloe should come with trigger warnings, because she can’t seem to say anything without setting her off.

 

“ _Stop_ saying that!” She shouts, “Who cares if you weren’t like me? Did you ever stop to think that it was my decision to spend time with you, just as much as it was your decision to spend time with me? You were the only person I ever wanted to be around, and don’t act like you didn’t feel the same!”

 

The brunette takes a step backwards and pulls her mane back. “That is _exactly it_ , though! Fuck, Chloe! I...I was…” She struggles to find the right word, her eyes searching the orangey sky for an answer, “I was poisoning you. I wanted to spend every waking moment with you and I never knew exactly why until I left! But you know - you _know_ \- that I was holding you down.”

 

It’s like Chloe misses the entire beginning and end of Beca’s part, and she zeros in on the middle. “You knew exactly why, you were just too scared to accept it.” She walks close enough for Beca to see the smooth indent of her scar. “You still are.”

 

Beca’s tongue swipes over her top row of teeth. Once the one with all the answers, now itching with questions. It’s her turn to be angry. “If you apparently knew so much, then why didn’t you ever say anything? Why did you make me watch you get hurt by all those assholes?”

 

She hates this, hates being the reason for Chloe’s tears and hates that she feels the need to ask such questions. Chloe pulls her lips into her mouth and hesitates. A choked sob erupts from her chest and she covers her mouth with a hand. Beca feels her heart slip out of her chest, scraping all the way down, and this time she doesn’t stop the tears from turning out from the corners of her eyes.

 

“I don’t know,” Chloe looks down and to the left, “I don’t have a good reason. I just wasn’t sure of myself. But you don’t really have a good reason for what you did either, so I guess were square.”

 

Beca feels the bite from her words pierce into her chest. She purses her lips stubbornly and digs her hands into her back pockets and says that she doesn’t understand, but she, sort of, actually does. She knows how difficult it can be to come to terms with feelings. She can only imagine how it must be for the redhead, who contains emotions that are easily three times as strong as hers. She also knows that Chloe is never going to understand her reasoning.

 

“I left you because I thought it was the right thing to do. I knew you’d be able to focus on your dreams and that you’d be able to keep your perfect mannerisms, and I wouldn’t get the chance to take away any of the parts of you that make you as perfect as you are.”

 

Chloe takes one more step closer and brings a hand up to slide along the side of Beca’s face and holds it gently, bidding Beca to look at her. So she does. “You left and I couldn’t feel anything for so long. You were the one who made me perfect, Beca. It took you leaving for me to realize that it was all you.” Her thumb strokes across a wet cheek. “It was always you.”

 

“I’m sorry.” She makes sure to look at Chloe’s blue eyes and hold her gaze, push as much truth through her eyes as she can, and she whispers to Chloe that she loves her so much, and that she always has and probably always will.

 

But Chloe tells her that they’re too late. And she leaves a gaping hole, full of yearning, where so much adoration used to reside as she walks away and calls a cab to take her to the airport.

 

Before that, though, Chloe kisses her. Really kisses her, like she needs it to survive. And she thinks she might actually need it for survival, because it’s the source of the single, tiny, glimmer of light that shines in the back of her mind where all her Chloe memories hide, and they are what get her up from the grassy floor and begin stitching her heart back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Please don't be too upset with me (if you are), this has been planned from the start! Pretty much the only thing I knew for sure was going to happen. And it was not easy to write! Why is this so hard?! Lol. Also, sorry the update is so late, but my finals are finally over and all my college apps are done! Anyway, tell me what you think of the chapter, and thank you so much for reading! (p.s. No, it is not over yet)


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